A  MONTH 

IN 


ANDRE  MAUREL 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  Qf 
CALIFORN»A 

SAN  DIE<30 


By  Andre  Maurel 

Translated  by  Helen  Gerard 

Little  Cities  of  Italy 


2  vols. 


A  Month  in  Rome 


ist  Day:  As  the  Crow  Flies.  2nd  Day:  The  Marble  Thicket. 
3rd  Day:  Snuffers  and  Spinning-Wheels.  4th  Day:  The  Rival  of 
Versailles.  5th  Day:  The  Lacus  Curtius.  6th  Day:  The  Kiss 
of  the  Belvedere:  7th  Day:  Turinus  and  Niobe.  8th  Day:  The 
Crowned  Ephebe.  gth  Day:  The  Cold  Venus.  loth  Day:  The 
Unpardonable  Sin.  nth  Day:  Church  Drawing-Rooms.  i2th 
Day:  Country  Pleasures,  isth  Day:  The  School  of  Glory. 
I4th  Day:  Under  the  Eucalyptus.  15th  Day:  The  Paternal 
Mansion.  i6th  Day :  The  Mausoleum.  I7th  Day :  Michelangelo's 
Great  Invention.  iSthDay:  The  Fornarina.  igth  Day:  Modern 
Rome.  20th  Day:  Affectations.  2ist  Day:  Annibale's  Violins. 
22nd  Day:  Urban  Pleasures.  23rdDay:  Resurrections.  24th  Day: 
Tellus  Magna  Virum.  25th  Day:  The  Voice  of  Juvenal.  26th 
Day:  The  Triumph  of  Endymion.  27th  Day:  Ruskin's  Mistake. 
28th  Day :  Cinderella.  2Qth  Day :  The  Throne  Room.  30th  Day : 
In  Exitu. 


A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


BY 

ANDR£  MAUREL 

AUTHOR  OF  "  LITTLE  CITIES  OF  ITALY."  ETC. 


AUTHORIZED   ENGLISH   EDITION 
TRANSLATED   BY 

HELEN  GERARD 


With  116  Illustrations  and  32  Maps 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

cbc   fmicfterbocfcer   press 

1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1916 

BY 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


ttbe  'Rnfclterbocfeer  press,  Hew 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 

MONTH  in  Rome!  Thirty  days  in 
a  city  that  could  not  be  exhausted 
by  thirty  years  of  profound  study! 
Thirty  days  of  the  light  impressions 
of  a  traveller  who  is  amusing  himself 
— as  are  all  travellers. 

"Rome  is  a  world  in  which  one  must  live  for  years 
before  he  can  know  his  way  about  in  it.  How  I  envy 
the  good  fortune  of  those  travellers  who  merely  pass 
through  it!"  Goethe  never  intended  to  have  his 
"envy"  taken  seriously,  but  I  confess  that  it  is  just 
one  of  those  passing-through-travellers  that  I  wish  to 
be.  This  is  not  the  book  of  a  man  on  his  tenth  visit, 
but  of  one  who  has  passed  little  time  in  Rome.  Neither 
archaeologist  nor  critic,  willing  to  accept  all  hypotheses, 
even  the  most  contradictory,  I  am  ready  to  beg  the 
erudite  scholars  not  to  drive  the  wolf  away  from  the 
Palatine.  I  have  come  here  for  the  pleasure  of 
wandering  innocently  among  the  ruins,  listening  to 
their  faint  voices  on  every  side.  Not  a  stone  that 
bruises  my  heel  fails  to  sound  its  note,  and  the  chorus 
swells  into  a  great  hymn  that  stirs  my  heart. 

Among  the  best-known  of  the  recent  conquerors  of 
ancient  Rome,  M.  Rene"  Schneider  has  said  of  her 
soul  and  M.  Efmile  Bertaux  has  said  of  her  treasures 

Ui 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 


all  that  can  be  said  at  present,  but  it  is  some  time 
since  we  have  had  tne  fresh, — naive,  if  you  will, — 
impressions  of  the  tourist  of  average  culture  and  un- 
limited interest,  the  well-intentioned  traveller  who  sees 
what  he  sees  and  thinks  and  feels  without  premedita- 
tion, a  book  that  the  hurried  visitor  may  thumb  as  he 
walks  about,  in  the  hope  of  finding  therein  expressed 
some  of  his  own  rapid  sensations. 

Little  now  exists  of  the  Rome  described  by  Presi- 
dent de  Brosses  and  Stendhal,  whose  literary  and 
familiar  style  I  imitate  without  hoping  to  equal  it. 
The  discoveries  made  and  the  changes  wrought  in  a 
hundred  and  fifty  and  in  eighty  years  have  so  modified 
the  aspect  of  the  Eternal  City  that  the  impressions  of 
the  twentieth-century  visitors  must  be  quite  different 
from  theirs.  In  the  course  of  the  last  thirty  years 
a  new  Rome  has  been  born,  and  that  is  as  true  of  the 
ancient  as  of  the  modern  city.  In  the  Forum,  for 
instance,  Taine  and  Gaston  Boissier,  whose  works 
must  always  be  incomparable  monuments  of  judg- 
ment and  taste,  would  not  know  where  they  were.  I 
should  be  proud  to  walk  behind  those  writers  who 
knew  so  well  how  to  question  and  to  count  the  stones 
they  found  here,  but  I  pretend  to  do  no  more  than 
simply  to  say  what  the  new  state  of  the  place  may 
inspire  in  the  neophyte  of  today,  that  which  impresses 
a  student  in  Rome  made  young  by  a  thousand  ruins, 
thanks  to  the  zeal  of  that  clever  artist,  that  learned 
archaeologist.  They  fixed  for  all  the  world  whatever 
was  known  in  their  time  and  whoever  treads  the  pave- 
ments of  Rome  walks  in  their  footsteps.  They  and 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 


their  followers  permit  me  to  be  happily  at  ease  before 
these  marbles  and  in  these  ancient,  newly  re-made 
gardens.  I  hope  for  nothing  but  to  share  my  pleasure 
with  those  who  would  like  to  accept  me,  not  as  their 
guide,  but  as  a  companion. 

We  shall  go  out  to  walk  thirty  times,  we  shall  choose 
thirty  interesting  subjects  from  among  the  hundreds 
offered  us  in  the  inexhaustible  supply  which  would  fill 
thirty  more  days  and  yet  other  thirties.  If,  some- 
times, our  days  seem  short,  you  must  remember  that 
I  am  compelled  to  condense  my  descriptions  and  to 
sum  up  what  we  see  in  second,  third,  and  even  fourth 
visits,  taken  for  granted,  since  every  tourist  in  Rome 
goes  back  to  places  he  has  seen,  and,  on  the  way,  he 
steps  into  buildings  not  down  on  his  programme  for 
that  day.  One  might  see  Rome  in  fifteen  mornings 
and  fifteen  afternoons,  if  to  see  a  city  were  but  to  open 
one's  eyes  upon  it;  but  with  thirty  days  we  shall  be 
able  to  see  even  this  ancient  mistress  of  the  world 
with  some  understanding  and  to  hear  her  voice  in  our 
ears  forever  after. 

Her  voice  is  ringing  in  my  ears  as  I  write,  for  the 
truth  is  one  writes  first  of  all  for  himself,  not  daring  to 
strive  to  please  others  lest  he  miss  his  mark,  but 
content  simply  to  follow  the  counsel  of  Ernest  Renan: 
"Lift  your  soul,  feel  nobly,  and  say  what  you  feel." 
This  book,  then,  is  merely  what  a  friend  once  said  of 
my  Little  Cities  of  Italy — the  work  of  a  happy  man. 
May  others  share  my  happiness  once  more! 

A.M. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FIRST  DAY 
As  THE  CROW  FLIES — THE  STREETS        .        .        i 

SECOND  DAY 

THE  MARBLE  THICKET — THE  FORUM     .         .       12 

THIRD  DAY 

SNUFFERS  AND  SPINNING-WHEELS — FRASCATI  .      24 

FOURTH  DAY 

THE  RIVAL  OF  VERSAILLES — THE  VATICAN,  THE 

PALACE 37 

FIFTH  DAY 

THE  LACUS  CURTIUS — THE  VATICAN  ANTIQUI- 
TIES        48 

SIXTH  DAY 
THE  Kiss  OF  THE  BELVEDERE — THE  VATICAN 

FRESCOES 61 

SEVENTH  DAY 

TURINUS  AND  NlOBE — THE  PANTHEON,  THE  IM- 
PERIAL FORUMS 78 

EIGHTH  DAY 
THE    CROWNED    EPHEBE — MUSEUM    OF    THE 

THERMAE         ......       89 

vii 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

NINTH  DAY 
THE  COLD  VENUS — THE  VILLA  BORGHESE          .     100 

TENTH  DAY 
THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN— THE  DOMENICHINOS  .    1 17 

ELEVENTH  DAY 
CHURCH  DRAWING-ROOMS— THE  ESQUILINE     .     132 

TWELFTH  DAY 
COUNTRY    PLEASURES — TIVOLI,    HADRIAN'S 

VILLA I46 

THIRTEENTH   DAY 
THE  SCHOOL  OF  GLORY — CHATEAUBRIAND       .     165 

FOURTEENTH  DAY 
UNDER  THE  EUCALYPTUS — WITHOUT  THE  WALLS     175 

FIFTEENTH  DAY 
THE  PATERNAL  MANSION— THE  FORUM  .        .190 

SIXTEENTH  DAY 
THE  MAUSOLEUM— THE  PALATINE.  .     201 

SEVENTEENTH  DAY 
MICHELANGELO'S    GREAT    INVENTION— THE 

CAPITOL 2I5 

EIGHTEENTH  DAY 
THE  FORNARINA— THE  FARNESINA  AND  PAM- 

FILI  VILLAS 22& 

NINETEENTH  DAY 
MODERN  ROME — THE  JANICULUM  .         .         .     245 


CONTENTS 


TWENTIETH  DAY 
AFFECTATIONS — VILLA  ALBANI        .         .         .     259 

TWENTY-FIRST   DAY 
ANNIBALE'S  VIOLINS — THE  PALACES       .         .     275 

TWENTY-SECOND  DAY 
URBAN  PLEASURES — THE  THERMS  OF  CARA- 

CALLA,  THE  COLOSSEUM   ....     293 

TWENTY-THIRD  DAY 
RESURRECTIONS — THEC^LIUS,  THE  AVENTINE     306 

TWENTY-FOURTH  DAY 
TELLUS  MAGNA  VIRUM — THE  APPIAN  WAY    .     319 

TWENTY-FIFTH  DAY 
THE  VOICE  OF  JUVENAL — THE  LATERAN  .         ,     332 

TWENTY-SIXTH  DAY 
THE  TRIUMPH  OF  ENDYMION — ALBANO,  NEMI     .     344 

TWENTY-SEVENTH  DAY 
RUSKIN'S  MISTAKE — MINERVA,  COSMEDIN       .     357 

TWENTY-EIGHTH  DAY 
CINDERELLA — PORTA    DEL    POPOLO,        VILLA 

MADAMA 369 

TWENTY-NINTH  DAY 

THE  THRONE  ROOM — ST.  PETER'S  .        .         .     382 
THIRTIETH  DAY 

IN  EXITU — FORUM 394 


I LLUSTRATI ONS 

PAGE 

VIEW  OF  ROME  FROM  THE  DOME  OF  ST.  PETER'S       6 

Anderson 

THE  ISLAND  OF  ST.  BARTHOLOMEW  IN  THE  TIBER         7 

Anderson 

THE  PALACE  OF  THE  QUIRINAL        .         .         .        7 

Anderson 

THE  FORUM  ......       18 

Anderson 

THE  COLOSSEUM  AND  THE  ARCH  OF  TITUS  FROM 
THE  PALACE  OF  THE  QESARS      .         .         .18 

Anderson 

THE  DETAILS  FROM  THE  HALL  OF  THE  VESTALS   .       19 

Anderson 

VILLA  ALDOBRANDINI,  FRASCATI      ...      30 

Anderson 

THE  FOUNTAIN  ABOVE  THE  VILLA  ALDOBRANDINI, 
FRASCATI  ......       30 

Anderson 

THE  CASCADE  OF  THE  VILLA  CONTI,  FRASCATI     .       31 
Anderson 

d 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


THE  CASCADE  OF  THE  VILLA  ALDOBRANDINI, 
FRASCATI  ......       31 

Anderson 

ST.  PETER'S  AND  THE  VATICAN    ...   40 

Anderson 

THE  COURT  OF  THE  VATICAN  .         .         .         .41 

Anderson 

THE  VATICAN  GARDENS          .         .         .        .41 

Anderson 

THE  VATICAN  LIBRARY  ....      44 

Anderson 

THE  CASTLE  OF  SAINT  ANGELO        ...      45 

Anderson 

APOLLO  BELVEDERE  IN  THE  VATICAN  MUSEUM    .       54 

Anderson 

APOXYOMENOS  IN  THE  VATICAN  MUSEUM  .         .       54 

Anderson 

APOLLO  SAUROCTONOS  IN  THE  VATICAN  MUSEUM       54 
Anderson 

AMAZON  IN  THE  VATICAN  MUSEUM  .         .      54 

Anderson 

JULIA  PIA  IN  THE  VATICAN  MUSEUM        .        .      55 
Anderson 


ILLUSTRATIONS  xiii 


PAGE 

JUPITER  OF  OTRICOLI  IN  THE  VATICAN  MUSEUM  .       55 

Anderson 

THE  VATICAN  MUSEUM  .....      55 
Anderson 

THE  CREATION  OF  MAN,  BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO, 
SISTINE  CHAPEL          .....       70 

Anderson 

DELPHIC  SIBYL,  BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO,  SISTINE 
CHAPEL     .......       70 

Anderson 

JEREMIAH,  BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO,  SISTINE 
CHAPEL     .......       70 

Anderson 

DETAIL  OF  THE  BURNING  OF  THE  CITY,   BY 
RAPHAEL 71 

Anderson 

THE  CUM^EAN  SIBYL,   BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO, 
SrsTiNE  CHAPEL 71 

Anderson 

THE  FORUM  OF  AUGUSTUS:     THE  TEMPLE  OF 
MARSULTOR 84 

Anderson 

THE  PANTHEON 85 

Anderson 

TRAJAN'S  COLUMN 85 

Anderson 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

THE  CLOISTER  OF  MICHAEL  ANGELO,  NATIONAL 
MUSEUM g. 

Anderson 

•s 

THE  BIRTH  OF  VENUS,  NATIONAL  MUSEUM         .       94 
Anderson 

THE  BATHS  OF  DIOCLETIAN"  ...       95 

Anderson 

MEDUSA,  NATIONAL  MUSEUM,  ROME        .         .      95 

Anderson 

THE  BORGHESE  PALACE          .         .         .         .108 

Anderson 

APOLLO  AND  DAPHNE,  BORGHESE  GALLERY   .  109 

Anderson 

SANTA    MARIA  DELLA   VICTORIA    AND  SANTA 
TERESA,  BY  BERNINI IOn 

Anderson 

PAULINE  BONAPARTE,  BY  CANOVA,  BORGHESE 
GALLERY IO9 

Anderson 

THE  COMMUNION  OF  SAINT  JEROME,  BY  DOMENI- 

CHINO,  VATICAN I2, 

Anderson 

SAINT  JOHN  THE  EVANGELIST,  SAINT  ANDREA 
DELLA  VALLE,  BY  DOMENICHINO    .         .         .125 
Anderson 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

SAINT  DOMINIC  AND  SAINT  NILUS,  BY  DOMENI- 
CHINO,  GROTTA-FERRATA     .         .         .         .125 

Anderson 

DETAIL  OF  MOSES,  BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO,  ST. 

PlETRO  IN  VlNCOLI 140 

Anderson 

SANTA  MAGGIORE 141 

Anderson 

ST.  CLEMENT'S 141 

Anderson 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  THE  VILLA  D'ESTE,  TIVOLI     .     1 56 

Anderson 

HADRIAN'S  VILLA,  TIVOLI        .         .         ...     156 
Anderson 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  VESTA,  TIVOLI       .         .         .157 

Anderson 

THE  CHURCH  OF  SAINT  LUIGI  DE  FRANCHESI.     170 

Anderson 

SAINT    CECILIA   AND    SAINT    VALERIAN,    BY 
DOMENICHINO,  CHURCH  OF  SAINT  CECILIA       .     171 
Anderson 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


ST.  PAUL'S,  INTERIOR 184 

Anderson 

ST.  PAUL'S,  EXTERIOR 

Anderson 

ST.  LORENZO,  INTERIOR         .         .         .         .185 

Anderson 

ST.  LORENZO,  EXTERIOR        .         .         .      *  .     185 

Anderson 

FORUM,  THE  VESTALS 196 

Anderson 

THE  ANAGLYPHAS,  ROMAN  FORUM         .        .196 

Anderson 

THE  FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  TEMPLE  OF  VESTA  .     197 

Anderson 

COLUMNS  OF    THE   TEMPLE  OF    CASTOR  AND 

POLLUX J97 

Anderson 

THE  PALACE  OF  THE  OESARS,  CIRCUS  MAXIMUS    208 

Anderson 

HOUSE  OF  DOMITIAN,  PALACE  OF  THE  C^SARS         2O8 
Anderson 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

THE  VIEW  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  DOMITIAN,  PALACE 
OFTHECESARS 2OQ 

Anderson 

THE  PALACE  OF  THE  CESARS  .         .         .     209 

Anderson 

CAMPIDOGLIO          ......  222 

Anderson 

CAPITOLINE  WOLF          .....     222 

Anderson 

STATUE  OF  MARCUS  AURELIUS,  PIAZZA  CAMPI- 
DOGLIO     .......     223 

Anderson 

CAPITOLINE  VENUS,  CAPITOLINE  MUSEUM          .     223 

Anderson 

ESQUILINE  VENUS,  CAPITOLINE  MUSEUM          .     223 

Anderson 

THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  VILLA  PAMPHILI      .         .     236 

Anderson 

MERCURY  AND  PSYCHE,  BY  RAPHAEL        .         .     237 

Anderson 

JUPITER  AND   CUPID,  BY  RAPHAEL,  FARNESE 
PALACE     .......     237 

Anderson 

STATUE  OF  THE  SAINT,  CHURCH  OF  SAINT  CECILIA    237 

Anderson 


ILL  USTRA  TIONS 


PAGE 


VIEW  FROM  THE  JANICULUM     ....       252 

Anderson 


.      252 

BOXER,  MUSEUM  DELLE  TERME       .         .         .253 

Anderson 

THE  THORN,  CAPITOLINE  MUSEUM  .         .     253 

Anderson 

.      266 
VILLA  ALBANI        ...  266 

Anderson 

THE  FOUNTAIN  AT  THE  VILLA  ALBANI      .         .     267 

Anderson 

THE  VIEW  AT  THE  VILLA  ALBANI    .         .         .     267 

Anderson 

FARNESE  PALACE,  PORTICO  .    .    .    .280 

Anderson 

FARNESE  PALACE  FROM  THE  REAR  .         .         .     280 

Anderson 

PALACE  OF  CANCELLERIA        .         .         .  281 

Anderson 

PALAZZO  BARBERINI      ....  286 

Anderson 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGB 

INNOCENT  XII.,  BY  VELASQUEZ,  DORIA  GALLERY    287 

Anderson 

PALAZZO  SPADA 287 

Anderson 

THE  COLOSSEUM,  EXTERIOR    ....     298 

Anderson 

THE  BATHS  OF  CARACALLA     ....     299 

Anderson 

THE  BATHS  OF  CARACALLA     ....     299 

Anderson 

THE  ARCH  OF  DOLABELLA       .         .         .         .312 

Anderson 

ST.  MARIA  IN  DOMINICA          .         .         .         .312 

Anderson 

THE  SAINT  SABINA  ON  THE  AVENTINE      .         .     313 

Anderson 

T*HE  APPIAN  WAY          .....     324 

Anderson 

TOMBS  ON  THE  APPIAN  WAY   ....     324 

Anderson 

THE  TOMB  OF  CECILIA  METELLA     .         .         .     325 

Anderson 

AQUEDUCT  OF  CLAUDIUS,  CAMPAGNA      .         .     325 

Anderson 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

ST.  JOHN  LATERAN,  EXTERIOR          .         .         .     338 

Anderson 

ST.  JOHN  LATERAN,  INTERIOR    .    .    .  338 

Anderson 

ST.  JOHN  LATERAN,  CLOISTER         .        .         .     339 

Anderson 

ALBANO  35o 

Anderson 

THE  CASTEL  GANDOLFO          .         .         .         .351 

Anderson 

ROCCA  DI  PAPA 351 

Anderson 

THE  ASSUMPTION,   BY  FRA  FILIPPO  LIPPI,   IN 
THE  TEMPLE  OF  MINERVA          .         .         .362 

Anderson 

SIBYLS,  IN  ST.  MARIA  DELIA  PACE,  BY  RAPHAEL     362 

Anderson 

THE  TEMPLE  OF  VESTA 363 

Anderson 

•     374 

ST.  MARIA  DEL  POPOLO  ....     374 

Anderson 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGB 

THE  TOMB  OF  CARDINAL  SFORZA,  ST.  MARIA 
DELPopoLo 375 

Anderson 

THE  TOMB  OF  SIXTUS  IV 388 

Anderson 

ST.  PETER'S 388 

Anderson 

LA  PIETA,  BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO,  ST.  PETER'S      .     389 

Anderson 

THE  TOMB  OF  URBAN  VIII 389 

Anderson 

THE  TEMPLE  OF  ANTONINUS  AND  FAUSTINA        .     392 

Anderson 

THE  ARCH  OF  CONSTANTINE   ....     393 

Anderson 

THE  TEMPLE  OF  PEACE  ....     396 

Anderson 

THE  ARCH  OF  TITUS 397 

Anderson 


\ftV\c  ^^UvUJ^i 


First  Day 

AS  THE  CROW  FLIES 

The  Streets 

OST  people  form  their  mental  pictures 
of  Rome  in  advance,  and  even  imagine 
the  sensations  they  are  going  to  experi- 
ence when  they  see  her,  loyally  opening 
their  hearts  to  her  in  their  day-dreams. 
By  means  of  a  course  of  historical  reading  and  attempts 
to  recall  schoolroom  tasks,  they  try  to  commit  to  re- 


A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


calcitrant  memories  some  pertinent  artistic  chronologies 
and  the  gist  of  a  few  biographies  and  manuals.  Above 
their  lists  and  schedules,  shines  a  vision  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church,  typified  in  Saint  Peter's — gorgeous, 
enormous,  amazing,  with  the  Vatican  beside  it,  con- 
taining the  immortal  Greek  statuary  and  Renaissance 
frescoes.  To  them,  Rome  is  also  the  Forum,  of  old 
walls  and  scattered  debris,  solitary  and  mute,  a  mass 
of  ruins  which  can  be  known  intimately  only  by  archae- 
ologists, but  which  every  traveller  must  be  able  to 
say  he  has  seen.  Their  Rome  is,  too,  a  permanent 
exhibition  of  masterpieces  saved  from  barbarism  and 
heaped  together  in  two  or  three  papal  palaces.  As 
for  the  city  itself,  it  is  to  the  average  visitor-to-be  a 
disordered  vision  of  heaps  of  poor  buildings  closely 
packed  together  around  other  and  tottering  palaces 
which  are,  undoubtedly,  of  great  interest  to  one  who 
knows  the  intricate  histories  of  the  old  Roman  families. 
Perhaps  they  think  of  it  as  did  Chateaubriand  when 
he  said : ' '  Death  seems  to  have  been  born  here.  There 
are  more  tombs  than  dead ;  it  seems  as  if  the  skeletons 
must  go  about  from  coffin  to  coffin  during  the  night." 
The  stranger  to  Rome  thinks  of  it  as  smothering  under 
the  weight  of  its  history,  a  city  one  wishes  to  know 
for  the  sake  of  its  past,  for  its  much  vaunted  scenery, 
its  Campagna,  the  Janiculum,  and  so  many  remains 
which  are  sure  to  be  disappointing,  their  splendour 
being  but  that  of  Caesar  dead  and  of  popes  long  since 
passed  away. 

Come,  let  us  look  at  this  Rome  with  unclouded 
eyes.     As  we  go  down  from  the  railway  station,  across 


THE  CROW  FLIES 


the  Piazza  delle  Terme,  towards  the  Tiber,  this  is 
what  we  see:  opposite  the  door  of  a  church,  a  fountain 
with  lascivious  nymphs  commands  the  vista  of  a  long 
and  wide  street  where  the  trolleys  weave  their  web, 
where  great  modern  shops  spread  out  their  luxuries; 
here  and  there  a  new  palace  stands  between  a  bazaar 
and  a  tobacco  shop.  Soon  this  boulevard  runs  into 
a  vacant  lot  about  which  it  makes  a  curve  to  arrive  at 
a  noisy  square  as  animated  as  the  Place  de  I'Ope'ra  in 
Paris.  On  the  left  of  this  square  is  the  Vittorio  Eman- 
uele  monument  and  on  the  right  a  swarming  street 
lined  with  red  palaces.  Disdaining  both  obstacle  and 
invitation,  our  avenue  goes  on,  still  broad,  filled  with 
shoppers,  humming  with  activity,  apparently  always 
in  a  hurry.  On  either  side  and  at  every  few  steps, 
streets  branch  off,  which  lead,  after  many  circuits 
and  suffocations,  to  squares  with  glittering  columns, 
or  where  fountains  play,  or  where  old  walls  elbow 
enormous  white  buildings  for  their  share  of  the  sun- 
shine. On  the  streets  and  on  the  squares,  every- 
where are  the  encumbrances  of  the  constructor,  the 
perspective  of  vast  enterprises  of  demolition  and 
up-building. 

Bewildered  by  so  much  confusion,  so  much  activity, 
we  look  for  some  quiet  centre,  some  place  to  take  our 
bearings, — a  refuge.  Shall  it  be  the  Quirinal  ?  Lost  on 
a  hill  gained  only  by  stairs  or  by  the  beds  of  torrents, 
the  Piazza,  di  Monte  Cavallo  will  no  more  serve  our 
purpose  than  would  the  apex  of  a  pyramid.  Indeed 
the  Romans  have  pierced  the  hill  with  a  tunnel,  in 
order  to  pass  from  one  side  to  the  other  of  the  Quirinal. 


A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


Shall  we  find  our  breathing  place  in  the  Piazza.  Col- 
onna  ?  The  Corso  cuts  that  in  two,  putting  the  low  and 
mellow  fountain  and  the  Column  of  Marcus  Aurelius 
all  awry.  But  why  the  Piazza  Colonna,  when  two 
steps  away,  at  the  end  of  the  Corso,  the  Piazza  di 
Venezia  squares  itself  out?  No,  that  is  the  chosen 
spot  for  a  ganglia  of  the  tramways  and  for  the  glorifi- 
cation of  Victor  Emmanuel.  The  Piazza  di  Spagna 
might  do,  or  the  Piazza  della  Cancelleria  still  better. 
What  a  centre  is  the  Piazza  of  Saint  Peter's!  But 
the  Vatican  encumbers  one  side  of  that,  and  it  is  over 
there,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Tiber,  so  far  away  from 
everything  else  that  the  cabmen  have  a  special  tariff 
for  driving  there.  The  seven  hills  still  scatter  Rome 
into  pieces  in  spite  of  men  and  time,  nor  can  the 
Forum,  in  its  hole,  bind  it  together. 

We  must  give  up  trying  to  stand  upon  the  hub  of 
this  universe,  turn  to  details,  and  try  to  find  order 
in  the  chaos.  On  our  first  stroll,  let  us  look  at  what- 
ever attracts  our  attention.  The  churches  are  innu- 
merable. The  Romans  have  an  old  saying,  "As 
many  churches  as  days  in  the  year";  but  they  add 
immediately:  "New  ones  have  been  built  since  that 
was  invented."  Whatever  their  number  may  be, 
they  are  all  indifferent,  if  not  repulsive,  of  aspect. 
One  who  goes  to  them  with  his  head  full  of  the  inspira- 
tions of  the  Renaissance,  with  visions  of  Florence  and 
Venice,  looks  at  them  in  vain  for  a  smile  or  a  feeling 
of  solemnity.  They  aim  only  at  decorative,  or  rather, 
stupefying  effects.  They  have  been  made  to  dazzle 
the  pilgrim  and  the  populace.  The  Baroque  in  art 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES 


is  master  among  them.  If  you  want  to  find  a  quiet 
retreat  for  a  pure  and  noble  prayer,  you  must  go  to 
look  for  it  in  the  worst  quarters  of  the  town,  among 
the  poor  for  whom  no  money  was  wasted  in  expensive 
renovations. 

The  palaces,  on  the  contrary,  remain  much  as  the 
princely  families  built  them.  Their  cornices  and 
windows  proclaim  that  the  great  art  of  Alberti  and 
Palladio  was  sown  as  far  as  this.  The  Palazzo  di 
Venezia,  the  Farnese,  the  Caffarelli,  the  Colonna,  the 
Sforza-Cesarini,  the  Madama,  the  Chigi,  the  Giraud, 
the  Aldobrandini,  the  Ruspoli,  all  are  here,  witnesses 
of  the  restrained  heroic  time.  Modern  life  has  begun 
to  eat  into  them,  too;  they  are  being  transformed 
under  the  hand  of  the  Madernos  of  today.  Shops 
are  installed  on  the  ground  floor,  banks  on  the  second 
— the  Banco  di  Roma  bought  the  Simonetti,  on  the 
Corso,  where  the  sumptuous  Cardinal  de  Bernis  and 
Chateaubriand,  French  ambassadors,  gave  their 
great  entertainments — while  the  proprietors,  for  the 
most  part  noble  Romans,  live  on  the  third  floor  where 
there  is  more  light  and  air. 

In  the  midst  of  these  modern  improvements,  the 
visitor  runs  against  scattered  ruins  at  every  step.  It 
is  not  possible  to  go  a  hundred  yards  without  coming 
upon  some  tragic  debris.  You  step  out  of  the  train 
and  into  a  tram  under  the  formidable  and  desolate 
vaultings  of  the  Baths  of  Diocletian,  surrounded  by  a 
garden,  but  still  frowning  across  the  young  branches 
of  the  newly  planted  square.  In  the  middle  of  a  great 
avenue,  encumbered  by  tramways,  the  Column  of 


A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


Trajan,  flanked  by  other  columns  cut  off  a  yard  above 
the  ground,  appears  in  the  clear  light  of  an  alley  at 
the  end  of  a  ditch.  Farther  on,  an  ancient  circus 
has  been  made  into  the  semicircular-ended  Piazza 
Navona. 

Through  one  street  running  this  way  and  another 
that  way,  we  come  to  a  sublime  portico  with  three 
rows  of  columns  sustaining  a  frame-work  as  seamed, 
in  spite  of  its  relative  newness,  as  the  mutilated  shafts 
that  carry  it.  This  is  the  Pantheon.  Farther  on  in 
our  stroll,  we  come  upon  another  portico,  with  eleven 
columns  on  whose  Corinthian  capitals  we  no  longer 
see  either  the  vine  or  the  acanthus,  merely  the  outline 
of  the  sprouting  stem.  This  is  the  Exchange,  for- 
merly the  Custom  House.  Again  we  stand  before 
the  Curia  Antonina  of  the  Empire.  That  other 
building  is  the  Temple  of  Neptune.  This  round  church 
is  a  hall  of  the  Thermae  of  Diocletian.  That  pedi- 
ment retreating  behind  the  two  "half -buried  columns, 
that  frieze  recording  the  good  deeds  of  Minerva  are 
the  Forum  of  Nerva.  At  one  side,  three  columns 
touching  the  wall  worthy  of  a  fortress  are  remains  of 
the  Forum  of  Augustus.  On  the  left  is  the  Forum 
Romanum  and  its  rubbish.  The  Palatine  shines 
green,  not  without  opening  a  thousand  black  and 
toothless  mouths  and  threatening  heaven  with  its 
great,  rusty  arms.  Here  is  the  Arch  of  Janus  Quadri- 
frons,  scarcely  disengaged  and  barring  the  street. 
There  the  vaulting  of  the  Cloaca  Maxima  lives  on  its 
memories.  The  Temple  of  Vesta,  covered  with  a 
petasus,  is  sheltered  under  the  declivity  of  a  quay. 


Anderson 


The  Island  of  St.  Bartholomew  in  the  Tiber 


The  Palace  of  the  Quirinal 


Anderson 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES 


As  we  go  on  we  see  the  Portico  of  Octavia.  The  en- 
gaged columns  of  the  Theatre  of  Marcellus  frame  sor- 
did shops.  The  curve  is  still  visible  in  the  workmen's 
houses  built  upon  the  foundations  of  the  Theatre  of 
Pompey  where  Brutus  killed  Caesar.  The  old  Colos- 
seum is  capable  of  furnishing  the  material  for  thirty 
more  palaces  and  another  hundred  churches  before  it 
becomes  a  veritable  ruin.  The  Arch  of  Dolabella  is 
there  and  the  Thermae  of  Caracalla  hold  their  ground, 
while  those  of  Titus  are  but  a  few  bricks.  The  stretch 
of  wall  near  the  station  is  all  that  remains  of  the 
enclosure  of  Serius,  and  this  roofless  temple  was 
dedicated  to  Minerva  Medica. 

Do  you  see  the  foliage  behind  the  church  of  the 
Trinita  de'  Monti,  with  the  flowers  in  rows  upon  the 
steps  forming  the  most  wonderful  of  pedestals?  That 
verdure,  on  the  left  side,  marks  the  site  of  the  ancient 
gardens  of  Lucullus,  where  Messalina  met  her  lovers ; 
and  on  the  right  lay  the  gardens  of  Sallust,  now  built 
up  in  a  rich  and  tree-planted  quarter  of  modern  Rome. 
Columns  and  obelisks  are  so  numerous  that  one  would 
think  that  Egypt  had  been  rifled  to  the  very  sources 
of  the  Nile!  One  great  name  recalls  others:  there 
is  testimony  to  fix  them  everywhere.  In  the  Corso, 
the  Palazzo  Fiano  stands  upon  the  holy  ground  of  the 
Ara  Pads.  A  concert  hall  has  been  built  on  the 
base,  still  to  be  seen,  of  the  Mausoleum  of  Augustus. 
The  Aventine,  protruding  from  its  rocks  toward  the 
Tiber,  looks  menacing  still  as  in  the  time  of  the  ob- 
stinate Decimvirs.  The  Caslius  is  yet  the  desert  it 
became  when  sacked  by  the  hordes  of  Robert  Guiscard. 


A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


The  early  Christians  hid  themselves  in  the  Esquiline. 
The  Trastevere  cherishes  the  prestige  of  the  Fornarina, 
watched  from  every  door.  The  Island  of  the  Tiber 
seems  to  grow  from  all  the  seed  that  legend  has  given 
it  for  foundation.  The  Borgo  is  a  sulky  city  still 
keeping  to  itself.  Over  there,  on  the  edge  of  the 
landscape,  are  the  still  mysterious  mountains  of  the 
Sabine  and  the  Alban  ranges,  charged  with  heroism, 
with  fertility,  and  with  history. 

Over  all,  everywhere,  the  nothings  one  touches  with 
every  movement  are  eloquent  of  the  past.  Here,  on 
a  street  corner,  is  a  single  column  standing  close  to 
the  stones  of  a  house  the  angle  of  which  it  rounds. 
Along  these  walls,  and  built  in  also,  breast  high,  is  a 
series  of  Ionic  capitals  whose  columns  have  disappeared 
under  the  ground.  Alone,  between  two  old  houses, 
or  behind  a  railing,  if  the  passing  crowds  make  it 
necessary,  are  bits  of  ancient  wall  whose  bricks  have 
been  rebaked  by  the  sun  of  a  thousand  years.  On 
and  on:  inscriptions,  a  fragment  of  cornice,  the  bare 
shaft  of  a  column,  half  a  pediment,  a  broken  arch,  like 
that  out  of  joint  above  an  old  door  on  the  quay  of 
the  Tiber,  over  opposite :  the  old  door  of  the  Albergo 
del  Orso. 

What  a  precious  memory!  Behind  that  little  inn 
wall,  Rabelais  hid  in  the  bottom  of  his  deep  pockets 
some  seeds  of  the  pink,  some  melon,  artichoke,  and 
lettuce  seeds,  destined  for  the  gardens  of  Le"guge*  from 
which  they  have  spread  over  all  France,  giving  to  her 
their  perfume  and  heaping  her  tables  with  savory 
dishes  for  four  hundred  and  fifty  years. 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES 


We  have  been  thinking  of  a  mouldy  city,  haunted 
by  phantoms  materialized  in  past  centuries.  Rome 
is,  on  the  contrary,  a  most  modern  and  noisy  city. 
Although  far  from  denying  anything  of  her  past,  in- 
deed putting  herself  to  great  pains  not  to  forget  it, 
she  wants  to  keep  pace  with  the  times,  to  be  a  great 
modern  capital,  to  show,  as  Italy  has  done,  that  she 
is  worthy  of  the  destinies  over  which  she  presides,  to 
enjoy  the  comforts  and  conveniences  enjoyed  by  her 
rival  capitals  of  Europe.  Every  one  of  her  days 
marks  an  effort  to  rise  out  of  the  tomb  in  which  she 
has  been  mouldering.  Her  ruins  are  ruined  twice 
over,  marbles  dragged  from  their  places,  carcasses 
mangled,  the  rotting  boards  of  an  empty  coffin;  but 
life  is  born  out  of  this  death.  For  almost  half  a  cen- 
tury, Rome  has  been  coming  to  life.  Has  she  done 
so  without  destruction?  Soon  I  shall  seek  to  find 
in  what  measure,  with  what  respect,  modern  Rome 
is  coming  to  life  over  ancient  Rome,  what  she 
disdains,  what  she  preserves.  Today  I  wish  only 
to  see  her  as  she  is,  right  or  wrong  in  what  she  does. 
This  contradictory  Rome  with  the  Via  Nazionale 
running  to  the  Thermae  of  Diocletian,  with  the 
Colosseum  echoing  the  gongs  of  the  tramway,  with 
the  Pantheon  measured  by  the  strides  of  the  cara- 
binieri,  with  the  Janiculum  the  pedestal  of  Garibaldi, 
with  Neptune  become  the  god  of  wealth ,  with  Mar- 
celtus  and  Pompey  sheltering  little  booths,  with  the 
Palatine  Square,  with  the  gardens  of  Lucullus  used 
for  the  concerts  of  the  military  band — this  Rome, 
where  everything  is  so  mixed  up,  is  what  no  other 


io  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

city  of  the  world  can  be  to  such  a  degree:  a  living 
museum. 

I  have  looked  for  a  centre  in  it ;  the  centre  is  in  the 
soul  of  the  city.  A  city  in  the  process  of  formation 
is  a  beautiful  spectacle,  the  more  so  when  it  is  forming 
among  ruins,  but  ten  times  more  so  when  it  knows 
the  value  of  the  ruins.  To  give  it  a  centre  would  be 
to  refuse  to  remember  that  it  is  built  on  seven  hills ! 
The  house  of  Livia,  which  we  are  going  to  see,  is  all 
Rome  brought  to  light.  The  dust  has  been  brushed 
away,  the  roof  repaired,  but  nothing  essential  has 
been  changed.  The  city  has  grown,  her  people  are 
settled  comfortably  among  the  surroundings  of  an- 
tiquity and  go  about  their  affairs  without  fear  and 
without  insolence.  I  shall  not  see  here  a  Pompeii,  a 
Mantua,  the  past  twice  dead,  but  the  miracle  of  a 
past  lending  itself  to  the  most  familiar  contact  of  the 
present.  Two  existences  mingle  and  make  but  one, 
the  first  embellishing  and  instructing  the  other,  the 
second  taking  counsel  from  the  first.  It  is  this  second 
thread  that  we  spin.  The  two  cities  are  closely  united, 
and,  living  as  we  are  in  the  world  of  the  present,  the 
two  seem  to  be  equally  at  our  sendee.  No!  It  is 
not  a  new  city  that  we  have  been  looking  at  just  now, 
but  a  city  which  has  taken  up  the  thread  fallen  from 
the  fingers  of  Lachesis.  Nowhere  else  have  I  had 
the  privilege  of  entering  whenever  I  might  choose  to 
do  so  the  centuries  which  time  has  swallowed  up. 
One  cannot  take  a  step  without  being  called  upon  to 
let  one's  self  go  on  some  delightful  excursion  into  other 
days.  One  enjoys  one's  own  times  and  former  times, 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES  n 

one  can  live  and  be  a  ghost,  too.  We  realize  the 
dream,  common  to  all  of  us,  of  being  ourselves  and 
others  at  the  same  time.  But  is  it  I  who  follow  back 
the  ages,  or  the  ages  which  reappear  in  me?  Vir- 
ginius,  Melius,  Chateaubriand's  Eudore,  they  are  all 
in  me,  wanting  to  know  what  is  going  on.  .  .  . 

A  living  museum,  unclassified,  wide  open  and  with- 
out glass  cases,  where  each  object  comes  naturally 
under  the  fingers  which  recognize  it  and  handle  it 
with  the  skill  of  an  expert!  An  inhabited  museum  in 
which  the  products  of  the  Sicilian  potteries  and  Myr- 
rine  cups  are  upon  our  tables,  or  the  woollens  of  Padua 
and  the  silks  of  Tyre  decorate  our  couches,  where  we 
drive  the  horses  of  Castor  and  Pollux,  where  our  house 
is  shut  by  a  door  from  the  temple  of  Janus,  where  we 
drape  ourselves  in  the  toga  with  the  ease  of  a  Roman 
citizen.  That  fabulous  history  which  in  our  childish 
minds  prolongs  the  fairy  lands  of  the  Bible  is  not 
only  revealed  here,  "come  true, "  but  is  accessible  and 
palpable.  Again  we  think  how  right  was  Rabelais 
with  his  salad.  It  was  he  who  brought  to  us  French- 
men the  perfume  and  the  taste  of  Mother  Rome  from 
the  ashes  he  tread  underfoot.  Let  us  interpret  and 
make  good  the  symbolical  lesson  he  taught  us.  Let 
us  perfume  ourselves  and  enrich  our  Latin  blood! 
Always  wonderful  in  flexibility  and  assimilation, 
Rome  mingles  together  all  epochs  and  modernizes 
herself  for  our  convenience.  Weak  indeed  should  we 
be,  if,  with  all  she  does  for  us,  we  were  unable  to 
understand  her! 


Second  Day 

THE  MARBLE  THICKET 

THe  Korxim 

O  see  Rome  in  detail  I  begin  at  the  Forum. 
This  is  the  source,  and  my  plan  being 
to  know  the  Eternal  City  by  following 
up  her  life  through  the  course  of  the 
ages,  what  better  method  can  I  adopt 
than  to  seek  the  testimony  of  her  first  days  in  the  places 
where  she  began  to  have  some  consciousness  of  herself? 
From  here  she  spread  throughout  Italy  and  over  the 
whole  world.  But  we  shall  find  this  maternal  breast 
ravaged,  with  scars  that  tell  us  how  the  city  was  over- 
come by  those  whom  she  had  absorbed.  The  scars 
are  tenderly  cared  for  now.  Nothing  could  be  more 
emblematic  of  the  undying  city  than  these  bandaged 
wounds,  the  remains  so  wonderfully  festooned  with 
growing  plants,  the  altars  strewn  with  fresh  flowers, 
as  we  find  them  today. 

12 


THE  MARBLE  THICKET  13 

I  come  to  the  Forum  soon  after  midday.  All  Rome, 
citizens  and  strangers,  alike,  are  either  at  luncheon 
or  taking  their  siesta.  The  sun  and  I,  only,  look  upon 
these  scattered  marbles;  we  are  alone  in  possession, 
breathing  the  perfumes  which  arise  from  death  puri- 
fied. For  this  first  sight  of  the  Forum,  I  have  chosen 
the  balcony  of  the  Tabularium.  Not  even  my  shadow 
must  disturb  the  shades.  In  my  black  recess  under 
the  immense  vaulting,  I  shall  not  frighten  any  memo- 
ries. The  birds  nesting  in  the  oleanders  may  sing 
undisturbed  of  the  new  miracle  of  spring  and  of  the 
ideals  of  young  Rome. 

The  sun  does  me  sumptuous  honour,  shining  with 
such  brilliancy  that  the  things  sheltered  by  wall  or 
column  are  almost  as  bright  as  if  they,  too,  felt  his 
caress.  An  equal  light  plays  upon  all  the  debris, 
indifferent  to  the  tragedies  of  time.  The  blue  of 
heaven  throws  a  soft  azure  tint  over  this  crude  white- 
ness, bright  enough  to  open  the  blind  eyes  of  Homer. 
In  the  sun's  quivering  rays,  columns  and  arches  stand 
out  rose  colour,  like  the  porticoes  of  Psestum  which 
repulse  the  Tyrrhenian  Sea.  The  three  columns  of 
the  temple  of  Castor  and  Pollux  lightly  carry  aloft 
the  three  stones  of  their  entablature,  like  Cupid 
perched  upon  three  fingers  of  Mars,  sporting  in  the 
day  god's  caressing  rays. 

The  eight  columns  of  the  Temple  of  Saturn  have 
none  of  the  light  gracefulness,  the  piquant  air  of  those 
other  three. 

The  Dioscuri  on  the  architrave — those  nude  boys 
on  horses  as  white  as  themselves,  who  saved  Rome  at 


I4  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

the  time  of  her  birth — do  not  follow  each  other  laugh- 
ingly, but  are  mighty  serious,  without  filets  to  give 
them  line.  After  the  three  columns  of  the  Castor 
and  Pollux,  the  columns  of  Saturn  seem  to  me,  like 
a  fagade  of  Palladio  beside  another  by  Sansovino, 
very  pure,  but  a  little  severe;  whereas  Sansovino' s 
is  full  of  joy.  I  promise  myself  that  when  I  go  down 
among  the  ruins,  that  smile  of  Castor  will  often  take 
me  back  to  him  for  I  may  need  his  encouragement,  if 
the  Forum  is  too  much  of  the  character  of  the  Saturn. 
From  the  height  of  my  balcony,  as  yet  I  hear  but  one 
voice  from  the  past,  and  that  is  full  of  piety  and 
heroism. 

My  eyes  now  go  to  the  mutilated  Arch  of  Septimius 
Severus,  a  tortured  Hercules,  the  members  palpitat- 
ing, the  flesh  alive,  oozing  a  black  blood,  carried  away 
by  the  waters  of  heaven  from  the  thousand  wounds 
inflicted  upon  him  by  the  barbarians  of  time.  The 
red  wall  of  the  Curia  complains  of  its  solitude,  left 
outside  of  the  new  enclosure,  far  from  friendly  neigh- 
bours. The  portico  of  the  Temple  of  Antoninus  and 
Faustina  is  full  of  the  pride  of  having  overawed  the 
sacrileges  perpetrated  all  about  it.  The  little  round 
Temple  of  Romulus  seems  to  tell  how  glad  it  is  at 
being  forgotten  in  its  modest  seclusion.  Farther  on, 
my  gaze  penetrates  under  the  vaulting  of  the  Basilica 
of  Constantine,  formidable,  indestructible.  Away 
over  there,  the  Arch  of  Titus  opens  its  one  eye  upon 
the  thousand  of  the  Colosseum.  And,  on  the  right, 
the  verdure  of  the  Palatine  crowns  the  great  toothless 
mouths  of  the  imperial  palace,  vast  caverns  where 


THE  MARBLE  THICKET  15 

the  Rome  of  the  emperors  lay  until  the  trumpet  of  our 
own  age  brought  her  back  to  life. 

What  shall  I  say  of  this  first  meeting,  this  first  em- 
brace of  the  city?  Once  before,  on  the  little  terrace 
of  Petrarch's  house  at  Arqua  Petrarca,  I  caressed  the 
stone  of  the  loggia  on  which  the  great  citizen  of  Italy 
had  laid  the  trembling  hand  of  a  tired  old  man.  I 
breathed  the  perfume  that  he  used  to  breathe  of  the 
eternal  wild  rose,  and  my  eyelids  fluttered  to  keep  my 
eyes  from  showing  that  they  were  wet.1  At  this 
moment  I  am  played  upon  by  no  such  tenderness. 
I  bruise  my  hand  on  the  rail  of  the  balcony  where  now 
I  overlook  the  world,  but  my  eyes  are  dry,  and  my 
mouth  opens  not  for  a  sigh,  but  to  utter  a  cry  of  vic- 
tory, of  possession.  I  have  it  at  last :  here  it  is,  calm, 
tranquil,  sure  of  itself,  proud,  frank  as  the  sky,  a  great 
open  book  whose  pages  any  one  may  turn!  Some 
people  have  said  to  me  that  the  Forum  is  little;  others, 
that  it  has  been  desecrated  by  the  houses  that  over- 
look it.  I,  at  this  moment,  find  it  infinite,  grand, 
like  the  world  to  which  it  gave  birth.  My  eyes  fixed 
upon  it,  see  nothing  else,  and  when  I  am  obliged  to 
turn  away,  they  retain  only  that  one  great  image. 
Why  should  I  look  at  the  surroundings  of  this  won- 
derful picture?  Not  a  sound  do  I  hear,  not  a  breath 
do  I  feel  that  does  not  reproach  me  for  not  having 
come  before,  and,  if  I  am  afraid  of  the  majesty  of  his 
wide-open  white  arms,  why  there  is  Castor's  smile  to 
reassure  me!  The  treasures  are  spread  at  my  feet; 

1  Little  Cities  of  Italy p,  vol.  i.,  part  ii.,  chap.  viii. 


16  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

they  seem  arranged  for  my  coming,  set  in  order,  after 
'so  many  centuries  for  the  visit  of  all  those  who  can 
be  moved  at  the  sight  of  ruins,  who  know  their  elo- 
quence and  the  pleasure  they  can  give. 

A  well-made  path  invites  me  to  leave  my  dark  cor- 
ner and  stroll  between  rows  of  irises  standing  under 
the  shadow  of  fresh  mauve  and  white  lilac  bushes. 
For  two  hours,  while  the  heat  of  the  day  passes,  I 
wander  about  among  parterres  of  roses  and  crumbled 
decorations,  under  the  surveillance  of  the  unobtrusive 
guardians,  faithful  watch-dogs,  sleeping  with  one 
eye  open  in  the  shadow  of  a  wall.  I  tread  the  pave- 
ment of  the  Basilica  Julia,  and  respectfully  step  over 
the  lines  made  for  playing  draughts,  as  in  a  church 
one  steps  over  the  stone  whereon  is  graved  some 
mitred  image.  Before  the  Rostrum,  I  look  at  the 
broad  face  of  Cicero,  grinning  from  the  platform,  and, 
in  the  silence,  I  hear  his  maledictions  against  Verres 
and  Cataline.  My  ample  toga  flutters,  I  am  jostled 
by  an  excited  crowd.  There  is  not  a  corner  of  the 
Basilica  ^Emilia  that  I  do  not  explore.  I  mount 
the  wooden  staircase  which  leads  to  the  portico  of  the 
Temple  of  Faustina.  The  custodians  sweep  away 
the  heaps  of  dust  for  me  to  see  the  green  and  red 
pavement  of  the  Basilica  of  Constantine,  that  red  of 
blood,  washed  off,  but  indelible.  I  enter  the  Temple 
of  Caesar,  and,  with  my  head  in  my  hands,  I  sit  resting 
among  its  four  earth-covered  pillars.  I  climb  even 
to  the  columns  of  Castor.  I  go  over  the  dwelling  of 
the  Vestals.  I  cover  the  plan  of  the  Regia  and  lin- 
ger by  the  Latus  Juturnae,  the  spring  where  the  Pala- 


THE  MARBLE  THICKET  17 

tine  nymph  used  to  rest  near  her  modest  and  charm- 
ing little  altar.  For  a  long  time  I  stand  before  the 
frescoes,  sole  remains  of  that  Christian  sacrilege, 
Santa  Maria  Antica,  which  was  installed  in  the  Temple 
of  Augustus  to  its  cost,  but  is  now  cleared  away. 
I  have  seen  everything,  verified  everything,  adored 
everything,  and  all  the  time  I  have  been  feeling  how 
vain  a  task  it  would  be  for  a  simple  traveller  in  search 
of  joy,  to  try  to  name  over  these  remains,  to  attempt 
to  raise  them  and  people  them  in  his  imagination. 
They  have  raised  themselves  before  my  eyes,  and 
filled  themselves  with  crowds  out  of  which  have 
emerged  the  greatest  of  their  children.  To  the  most 
ignorant  man  who  looks  at  it,  this  rubbish  is  full  of 
poetry.  Surely,  he  is  fortunate  who  can  give  to  each 
of  these  stones  its  name  and  place, — and  I  should  like 
to  be  he.  But  would  it  not  be  at  the  expense  of  pure 
emotion?  The  Forum  Romanum,  so  smiling  and  so 
severe,  is  spectacle  enough  without  the  ornamentation 
of  any  forced  memories.  One  cannot  but  yield  to  the 
attraction  of  this  fallen  colossus,  admire  the  pride 
still  glowing  in  its  destroyed  and  scattered  members. 
Equally  impossible  is  it  not  to  think  of  what  it  would 
be  if  still  standing,  in  use,  a  hundred  times  transformed, 
freshened,  rebuilt,  a  museum,  a  church,  government 
offices,  commercial  exchange,  theatre.  How  beauti- 
ful it  is,  broken  to  pieces,  ruined!  Is  it  not  enough 
to  have  it  cleared  of  its  dust  and  open  to  the  daylight? 
The  great  eras  of  the  ruined  Forum  are  written  there; 
first  the  time  of  Theodoric,  last  witness  of  the  basilicas 
and  the  temples  as  they  stood;  then  the  time  of 


1 8  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Guiscard;  then  the  ages  of  night.  In  the  fifteenth 
century  Poggio  Bracciolini  wrote:  "Virgil  described 
the  state  of  Rome  at  the  epoch  when  Evander  wel- 
comed the  fugitive  from  Troy.  The  Tarpeian  Rock 
was  covered  with  bushes.  A  golden  temple  soon 
covered  it.  A  revolution  of  the  wheel  of  fortune  and 
briars  and  brambles  again  covered  the  sacred  soil. 
The  Forum  today  is  surrounded  by  a  hedge,  and 
vegetables  are  cultivated  there,  or  it  serves  as  a 
promenade  for  swine  and  buffalo."  Notwithstanding 
certain  works  toward  redemption,  it  must  have  re- 
mained like  that  up  to  our  own  day.  Poussin  and 
Chateaubriand  saw  it  in  almost  the  same  state  as 
Poggio  describes  it.  We,  knowing  this  as  we  walk 
about  the  Forum  today,  rilled  with  amazement  and 
joy,  must  think  what  good  fortune  it  was  that  the 
swine  and  buffaloes  found  herbage  here,  that  under 
their  hoofs  the  Forum  slept  to  awaken  in  the  twentieth 
century. 

Not  a  step  can  we  take  in  this  astounding,  bewilder- 
ing mass  without  striking  against  a  marble.  The 
eye  cannot  look  in  any  direction  without  seeing  a 
string-course,  a  cornice,  a  capital,  a  sculptured  base,  a 
pillar,  the  very  undergrowth  is  scattered  with  crumbs 
of  debris.  Nothing  is  intact,  nothing  is  complete; 
everything  is  in  broken  fragments.  Yet  how  full  of 
joy  it  all  is  under  the  deep  blue  sky;  vibrating  to  the 
sun  which  passes  light  fingers  over  the  jagged  flesh. 
We  feel  our  deepest  emotions  touched  by  its  contrasts, 
its  happy  death,  its  abandonment,  and  its  confidence. 
Thousands  of  these  fragments,  lying  about  on  the 


Anderson 


The  Forum 


Anderson 

The  Colosseum  and  the  Arch  of  Titus,  from  the  Palace  of  the  Caesars 


\ 


THE  MARBLE   THICKET  19 

ground,  you  might  carry  away ;  these  passive  witnesses 
of  their  past  are  within  your  reach,  but  they  have  con- 
fidence in  you,  in  the  respect  of  the  world,  like  children 
who  know  nothing  of  evil,  they  stand  here  against 
their  flowering  background  making  us  welcome  their 
innocence  thrown  into  pure  relief  by  their  beautiful 
setting.  For  this,  at  every  step,  we  bless  and  thank 
Signor  Giacomo  Boni,  artist,  poet,  scientist,  and  archae- 
ologist. Signer  Boni's  excavations  have,  during  the 
past  ten  years,  almost  doubled  the  riches  of  the  Forum, 
of  Rome,  which  is  of  all  men. 

Formerly  nature  had  conquered  the  Forum;  now 
she  has  it  in  her  embrace.  It  is  the  most  wonderful 
garden  imaginable.  Not  a  corner  where  some  bush 
is  not  growing.  Is  there  a  dead  wall,  it  is  enlivened 
by  rhododendrons,  oleanders,  or  lilacs.  Is  there  a 
dark  corner,  a  re-entrant  angle,  a  copse  makes  it 
cheerful.  Approaches  to  the  great  monuments,  the 
Basilica  of  Constantine,  bases  of  the  temples,  all  are 
embellished.  Each  ruin  with  well-defined  boundaries 
has  been  set  off  by  its  own  balmy  cluster  of  verdure. 
Sweet-briar  and  roses  spring  from  the  interstices, 
crown  dismantled  walls,  making  death  gay  with  their 
freshness.  Each  stone  is  a  tomb  and  the  master  cares 
for  it  as  if  it  were  that  of  his  ancestor.  Little  trees, 
small  wreaths,  pliant  bindweed,  all  show  the  filial 
piety  that  wishes  to  rob  the  tomb  of  its  terror,  without 
hiding  from  faithful  eyes.  This  is  a  true  cemetery, 
but  of  the  fields,  invaded  by  spring,  where  the  dead 
smile  at — and  teach — the  living  among  the  perfumed 
growing  things  of  earth. 


20  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

If  it  were  necessary  to  detail  the  care  or  insist  upon 
the  delicate  feeling  bestowed  upon  this  pious  work, 
if  it  were  necessary  to  prove  what  cautious  and  vigil- 
ant tenderness  holds  sway  in  this  formidable  place, 
undiminished  by  a  single  failure  in  good  taste,  or  by 
any  act  of  indiscreet  zeal,  would  it  not  be  enough  to 
say  that  the  Temple  of  Caesar  is  decorated  with  ole- 
anders? Who  would  not  be  moved  at  the  sight  of 
oleanders  growing  there  where  Caesar  burned  upon  his 
funeral  pyre !  Great  Caesar's  dust  gives  life  to  olean- 
ders! •  His  ghost  walks  among  the  oleanders!  See  the 
Lacus  Juturnae,  the  beautiful  and  limpid  fountain  to 
which  the  waters  of  the  Palatine  were  coaxed.  To- 
day it  is  full  once  again,  and  the  little  altar,  replaced 
in  its  angle,  mirrors  its  gods  and  its  garlands  in  the 
same  waters  that  used  to  reflect  them  long  ago.  Far- 
ther on  a  column  stood  for  ages  looking  at  its  archi- 
trave lying  at  its  feet  and  longing  for  the  sister  column 
which  had  helped  to  carry  its  fallen  burden.  Now 
the  architrave  is  replaced  and  is  sustained  at  the  other 
end  by  a  brick  pillar  covered  with  an  entwining  wista- 
ria in  full  bloom.  Every  shaft  that  has  been  deprived 
of  its  marble  casting  is  similarly  caressed  by  nature 
and  festooned  in  gladness  with  the  resurrection  of 
every  April.  The  purest  flower  of  this  awakened 
park  is  in  the  Atrium  of  the  Vestals.  Around  that 
great  area  the  statues  of  the  priestesses  are  placed 
upon  their  pedestals  with  nothing  to  distract  atten- 
tion from  them,  shining  white  against  the  walls  or 
mauve  against  the  sky.  Witnesses  of  art  and  of 
history,  have  not  they  also  the  right  to  live  again  and 


THE  MARBLE  THICKET  21 

does  not  modern  Rome  magnify  them  still  in  giving 
them  back  their  setting?  The  old  basin  has  been 
cleared  of  its  rubbish,  water  again  runs  there,  reflect- 
ing the  goddesses  while  dwarf  rose  trees,  simple,  un- 
cultivated little  red  roses,  the  maternal  sweet-briar, 
form  a  girdle  around  the  curb,  throwing  their  colour 
into  the  water,  from  which  the  reflection  touches  the 
cheeks  of  the  statues. 

Words  are  cold:  if  there  is  one  that  can  suggest  the 
beauty  of  this  Forum  garden,  it  is  the  word  of  im- 
puissance,  the  word  inexpressible.  To  describe  these 
decorations  is  to  exaggerate  them,  but  no  one  must 
think  that  they  are  excessive.  It  is  only  after  hours 
of  wandering  about  that  you  can  perceive  the  light 
hand  that  has  woven  them.  You  will  for  a  long  time 
think  of  the  thin  bushes  of  the  time  of  Evander.  So 
sure  is  the  taste  which  has  inspired  the  arrangements 
that  it  is  only  little  by  little  that  you  will  find  them  out. 
The  Forum  of  today,  twice  the  size  of  that  of  the 
time  of  Poggio,  in  those  days  when  the  flocks  used  to 
graze  there,  has  as  many  flowers  now  as  then,  but 
they  no  longer  choke  up  the  marbles  and  the  memories. 
All  are  in  their  places,  lending  aid  to  one  another, 
mutually  exalting  one  another  for  our  enchantment. 
Marbles  and  oleanders  have  their  fruitful  existence 
side  by  side,  equal  and  harmonious.  Nothing  is  lost 
to  the  mind,  nothing  is  lacking  to  the  heart.  After 
you  have  seen  and  admired  and  remembered  under 
the  charm  of  the  Forum  of  the  twentieth  century, 
then  you  will  be  able  to  bless  the  barbarians. 

The  sun  has  long  been  hidden  behind  the  Capitol, 


22  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

and  I  cannot  tear  myself  away.  It  seems  to  me  that 
I  could  pass  the  rest  of  my  life  here.  I  look  with  envy 
at  the  guardian  down  there  who  is  beginning  to  show 
his  impatience  for  closing  time.  Tomorrow  he  will 
come  back;  he  will  pass  all  his  days  here.  Rome 
echoes  all  around  me.  Before  my  eyes  stand  all  the 
monuments  that  I  had  a  glimpse  of  yesterday,  my 
ears  ring  with  the  calls  of  the  Vatican,  the  Thermae, 
the  Appian  Way,  but,  strong  as  was  their  appeal  to 
me  when  I  was  still  far  away  from  them,  now,  linger- 
ing here  in  the  bottom  of  this  revivified  tomb,  I  feel 
insensible  to  them  all.  Michelangelo,  Raphael,  are 
but  men,  whereas  here  I  am  near  the  gods.  Many 
times,  in  this  land  of  Italy,  have  I  thrilled  with  pleas- 
ure, have  I  been  stirred  by  the  pride  and  joy  of  living. 
Never  have  I  known  hours  so  happy,  so  pure,  so  full 
of  that  joy  and  pride  as  those  passed  here.  When, 
from  the  height  of  the  Tabularium,  I  first  looked  upon 
the  serene  and  indestructible  grandeur  of  this  field 
of  marbles,  this  orchard  of  columns,  I  apprehended  the 
meaning  of  those  great  words:  nobility  and  majesty. 
I  lifted  my  head,  carried  out  of  myself  by  the  thought 
that  I,  too,  was  a  part  of  this  noble  and  majestic 
humanity.  Familiarity  has  taken  away  nothing  of 
that  exaltation,  only  deepened  it  with  tenderness. 

It  is  time  to  go.  With  the  most  solemn  vows,  I 
say  good-bye.  Tomorrow,  every  day,  I  shall  come 
back.  Here  in  this  valley  is  all  Rome,  its  strength, 
its  poetry,  its  heaven,  and  its  soul.  My  own  soul 
lives  here,  also.  And  who  am  I  to  have  such  happi- 
ness? Why,  after  so  many  centuries  have  rolled 


THE  MARBLE  THICKET  23 

away,  am  I,  the  son  of  a  foreign  land,  so  moved  by  a 
spectacle,  which  after  all,  appears  to  be  nothing  but 
colours  and  contours,  which  is  supposed  to  recall 
nothing  but  school-day  memories?  The  men  who 
made  my  country  had  no  part  in  this.  I  owe  it 
nothing  ...  at  least.  .  .  .  And  as  I  walk  back 
among  the  lilacs  and  the  irises,  I  wonder  if  I  have 
gone  because  I  feel  at  home  in  the  Roman  Forum? 


TKird  Day 

SNUFFERS  AND  SPINNING- 
WHEELS 

Frascati 

ESTERDAY  having  been  surcharged 
with  marbles,  as  was  the  pasture  of 
Poggio's  buffalo  and  of  Chateau- 
briand's "oxen  with  enormous  horns," 
I  dreamed  all  night  of  the  Forum 
where  I  had  been  overfed,  and  felt  like  the  herds  of 
the  Campo  Vaccino,  chewing  their  cud  in  the  stable. 
If  I  stay  in  Rome  today,  my  feet  will  carry  me  back 
there  in  spite  of  me.  I  shall  again  be  subjugated  by 
the  exaltation  which  laid  hold  of  me  yesterday  and 
made  me  despise  everything  not  Caesarean,  and  I  shall 
spend  there  every  one  of  the  few  days  that  must  be  so 
divided  that  I  shall  see  something  of  all  Rome.  It 
would  be  wise  to  put  a  broad  piece  of  the  Campagna 
between  me  and  the  Forum.  I  must  go  up  in  the 

24 


SNUFFERS  AND  SPINNING-WHEELS  25 

mountains,  and  breathe  the  spring  air,  perfumed  with 
recent  life.  The  shady  places,  the  running  waters, 
the  attractive  villas  of  Frascati  will  help  me,  by  their 
familiar  association  with  the  everyday  life  of  a  most 
recent  past,  to  come  back  to  the  present  century. 
Tomorrow,  once  again  in  the  varied  city,  I  shall  be  able 
to  look  about  me  without  so  many  sighs,  and  may  I 
see  something  that  is  not  /// 

Once  outside  the  city  gates,  we  may  read  any  descrip- 
tions of  the  Roman  Campagna,  however  old,  without 
perceiving  how  many  generations  ago  it  was  written. 
"For  a  long  distance  on  our  left  hand,  we  have  the 
Apennines,  the  prospect  of  an  unpleasant  country, 
humpy,  full  of  deep  cuts,  incapable  of  receiving  the 
attack  of  an  army  in  order,  the  ground  without  trees, 
and  a  large  part  of  it  sterile,  the  country  very  open 
all  around  for  more  than  ten  miles  in  extent;  and 
almost  all  of  it  is  of  this  character,  with  very  few 
houses."  As  Montaigne  saw  the  surroundings  of 
Rome,  so  we  see  them  today.  Should  I  try  to  de- 
scribe this  Campagna,  attempting  a  task  before  which 
such  a  realist  as  Taine  fell  back?  Chateaubriand, 
in  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  of  his  pages,  certainly 
in  the  most  magnificent  ones  that  he  wrote,  has  made 
it  sublime;  the  child  of  Brittany  was  touched  to  his 
soul  by  this  integral  solitude  without  trace  of  human 
remains  other  than  ruins.  Pasturage,  nothing  but 
pasturage  without  flocks  to  crop  it,  without  cabins  to 
hold  possession  of  it,  without  labourers  to  take  the 
trouble  to  plough  it — an  absolute,  wilful,  systematic 
waste!  This  was  the  Campagna  of  the  lethargic 


26  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Rome  whose  sinister  portrait  was  traced  by  Stendhal, 
in  certain  fragments,  and  by  Taine,  in  his  Travels. 
Like  the  pontifical  city,  it  was  deliberately  kept 
asleep.  However  great  the  shock  we  may  feel  upon 
going  out  upon  it  from  the  capital  of  the  Kingdom 
of  Italy,  we  must  not  fail  to  recognize  its  grandeur. 
Cultivated,  the  Roman  Campagna  would  appear  to 
our  Parisian  eyes,  like  the  plain  of  Pierrefitte  and 
of  Gonesse.  We  like  it  better  sterile,  wild,  glacial, 
funereal,  and  made  the  more  sinister  by  the  large 
torsos  of  the  crumbled  aqueduct.  The  Alban  and 
Sabine  mountains  form  an  incomparable  background; 
the  Campagna  spread  out  as  it  is  against  their  masses 
of  colour  and  shadows  is  imposing  and  attractive  at 
the  same  time,  embracing  the  rich  and  blustering 
city  like  a  vast  moat  which  bathes  the  castle  walls, 
or,  to  change  the  figure,  like  the  spring  where  swims 
the  ancient  nymph. 

The  train  crosses  the  Campagna  so  quickiy  that 
I  am  consoled  only  by  the  thought  that  on  another 
one  of  my  thirty  days  I  shall  see  it  for  its  own  sake, 
with  its  ruins,  and  that  then  I  may  attempt  to  under- 
stand its  character  and  significance.  Its  arid  soil 
seems  like  a  fantastic  hunting  field  reserved  by  the  Ro- 
mans for  their  pleasures  of  the  chase.  As  I  think  of  the 
Forum  with  its  flowers,  how  much  I  wish  that  the 
Campagna  had  its  growing  grain  today,  as  in  the  time 
of  Camillus,  when  the  people,  excluded  from  a  share 
in  this  fertile  land,  revolted  against  the  patricians. 

Horace  was,  perhaps,  the  only  Roman  of  them  all 
who  did  not  look  at  Rome  from  the  windows  of  his 


SNUFFERS  AND  SPINNING-WHEELS  27 

villa.  The  children  of  the  heroic  race  who  were 
centuries  in  conquering  these  mountains  could  only 
rest  in  them  by  assuring  themselves  every  time  they 
lifted  their  eyes  that  Rome  was  so  near  that  they 
could  not  be  robbed  of  her.  From  the  Alban  mount- 
ains the  Romans  came  and  to  the  Albans  they  re- 
turned when  their  fortunes  were  made,  but  from  every 
point  they  chose  for  their  showy  villas,  they  could 
see  Rome  shining  brilliantly,  spread  out  upon  the 
plain.  The  olive  trees  of  their  vast  plantations  do 
not  interfere  with  the  prospect;  the  orchards  on  the 
hillsides  seem  to  flatten  themselves  in  order  not  to 
spoil  the  view. 

Frascati  was  the  advance  post  of  the  old  Tusculum 
which  took  refuge  on  this  promontory  when  the 
Romans  of  the  twelfth  century,  by  one  of  the  most 
odious  crimes  of  their  history,  had  ruined  the  grand- 
daughter of  Ulysses  and  of  Circe.  Shameless,  salu- 
brious Frascati  stands  out  gaily,  facing  the  pride  of 
Rome,  seated  broadly  upon  the  banks  of  her  superb 
river.  What  remains  to  us  of  its  history  is  modern. 
The  villas  of  the  princely  families  who  took  possession 
here  were  built  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  and  during 
the  seventeenth  centuries  and  lack  the  purity  of  the 
villas  that  I  have  seen  in  Tuscany,  in  Venetia,  in 
the  Marches,  and  in  Umbria,  all  flowers  of  the  divine 
Renaissance.  These  are  dominated  by  a  bad  taste 
scarcely  held  within  bounds  by  the  traditions  of  the 
great  epoch.  Built  by  nobles  who  drew  as  they  chose 
upon  the  bank  of  the  Church,  nephews  of  the  popes 
or  cardinals  who  had  fallen  out  with  the  papacy,  they 


28  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

advertised  opulence ;  all  of  them  were  made  for  turbu- 
lent pleasures,  and  rang  with  that  song  by  Horace  after 
Actium:  "The  trouble  is  over,  every  one  is  pledged  in 
Italy,  pacified  at  last.  Let  us  drink,  let  us  dance!" 

The  papal  princes  no  longer  made  war;  they  had 
even  lost  the  interest  in  letters  and  the  arts  which  had 
once  consumed  the  souls  of  a  Piccolomini,  a  Barbo, 
a  Borgia,  a  Rovere,  or  a  Farnese.  What  did  they 
do  the  livelong  days?  For  their  amusement,  they 
utilized  the  waters  that  gush  out  of  the  flanks  of  these 
precipitous  mountains,  making  grottoes,  cascades, 
jets  of  spray  rising  in  the  air,  tumbling  in  masses, 
twisting  and  tangling,  adding  their  falls  and  their 
trickery  to  their  fresh  voices.  Almost  nothing  now 
remains  of  these  puerile  amusements.  In  the  past 
century,  one  still  enjoyed  them,  and  President  de 
Brosses,  jovial  man,  laughed  himself  ill  over  them. 
He  has  left  us  testimony  of  how  the  gay  cardinal- 
nephews  amused  themselves  at  the  Villa  Aldobrandini. 

A  great  jet  of  water,  "one  of  the  most  beautiful 
things  that  one  can  see  in  the  world,"  spurted  out 
with  a  frightful  noise  of  air  and  water  ingeniously 
combined  to  make  a  veritable  concert.  A  centaur 
played  a  cow-herd's  horn  and  a  faun  played  a  flute. 
They  really  played  them,  the  air  being  forced  through 
tubes  into  the  instruments  hung  from  the  lips  of  the 
gushing  statues.  "Ear  splitting  music,"  said  Brosses 
who  was  amused  by  it,  nevertheless.  He  proposed 
to  send  the  centaur  and  the  faun  to  the  school  of 
Apollo  who  gave  a  similarly  discordant  concert  in  a 
neighbouring  hall,  with  the  aid  of  the  nine  Muses. 


SNUFFERS  AND  SPINNING-WHEELS  29 

Farther  on,  Pegasus,  with  an  impetuous  foot,  made 
the  water  burst  forth  in  fountain  Hippocrene  which 
also  sings.  All  this  can  hardly  have  been  as  painful  to 
eye  and  ear  as  the  mischievous  President  would  have 
us  believe,  since,  as  he  says : 

"We were  seated  very  seriously  to  hear  the  centaur 
play  on  his  cow-herd's  horn,  without  noticing  a  hun- 
dred little  traitorous  pipes  distributed  about  between 
the  joints  of  the  stones  which  suddenly  parted  above 
us,  forming  arcades." 

The  party  ran  away,  laughing,  and  the  evening 
passed  in  the  enjoyment  of  similar  tricks. 

"There  is,  especially,  a  nice  little  revolving  stair- 
case, and  as  soon  as  one  steps  upon  it,  jets  of  water 
spring  out,  crossing  one  another  in  every  direction, — 
from  above,  from  below,  from  all  sides.  One  is  held 
there,  unable  to  escape.  Under  this  stair,  we  had  our 
revenge  on  Legouz  to  whom  we  owed  the  inundation 
of  the  hall.  He  started  to  turn  a  cock  to  dash  water 
upon  us,  but  that  cock  was  made  on  purpose  to 
deceive  deceivers;  a  torrent  as  big  as  one's  arm 
struck  him  with  incredible  force,  squarely  in  the 
stomach.  Legouz  fled,  his  breeches  distilling  water 
into  his  shoes.  We  laughed  until  we  fell  on  the 
floor." 

I  can  well  believe  it.  At  the  local  fairs,  to  this  day, 
is  sold  a  cravat  pin  with  a  hidden  attachment  to  a 
bulb  filled  with  water,  hanging  on  the  wearer's  chest, 
and  he  has  only  to  press  it  while  you  respond  to  his  in- 
vitation to  examine  his  pin,  to  make  it  give  you  a  dash 
in  the  face.  Gentlemen  of  the  seventeenth  century 


3o  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

and  magistrates  of  the  eighteenth  century  amused 
themselves  with  these  diversions.  The  custodian  of 
the  Villa  Aldobrandini  did  not  even  ask  me  to  regret 
them :  he  does  not  know  that  they  ever  existed.  Less 
fortunate  than  our  Burgundian,  I  was  obliged  to  resign 
myself  to  looking  calmly,  and  without  being  spattered, 
at  this  aquatic  architecture.  From  the  loggia  of  the 
casino,  under  the  vaulting  of  the  vestibule,  these 
stages,  these  water  stairs,  these  columns  sown  with 
precious  stones  are  interesting  with  the  charm  of  old 
spinning-wheels  in  the  corner,  of  the  candle-snuffers 
on  the  chimney-piece.  Trees  have  grown  around  and 
above  the  cascades,  some  of  which  still  have  a  thread 
of  water,  the  foliage  adding  a  mystery,  a  shaded  inti- 
macy that  makes  them  more  pleasing.  But  we  must 
remember  that  time  and  solitude  only  have  bestowed 
this  character  upon  them.  In  the  days  of  Clement 
VIII.,  trees  were  more  rare,  the  waters  more  abundant, 
and  noisy  people  were  about.  Perhaps  my  judgment 
is  too  severe  upon  such  works  as  the  Aldobrandini 
Villa,  which,  although  less  rich,  is  quite  as  brilliant 
as  the  Villa  Medici  where  my  asperities  are  softened 
by  the  Domenichino  frescoes;  but  I  can  no  more  for- 
give Giacomo  della  Porta,  who  made  this  agreeable 
dwelling  upon  this  incomparable  site,  for  his  rustic 
concessions  to  bad  taste  than,  at  Mantua,  I  can  excuse 
Giulio  Romano  for  his  shell  grottoes. 

The  other  villas  here  also  have  their  mechanical 
contrivances  which  have  been  overcome  by  ruin 
while  the  prosperity  of  nature  has  favoured  their 
gardens.  They  lie  along  the  mountains,  hidden  un- 


Anderson 


Villa  Aldobrandini,  Frascati 


Anderson 


The  Fountain  above  the  Villa  Aldobrandini,  Frascati 


Anderson 


The  Cascade  of  the  Villa  Conti,  Frascati 


Anderson 


The  Cascade  of  the  Villa  Aldobrandini,  Frascati 


SNUFFERS  AND  SPINNING-WHEELS  31 

der  the  oaks  and  the  olive  trees  which  open  their 
majestic  parasols  above  the  roads.  The  Falconieri, 
standing  upon  a  terrace  from  which  one  sees  Tivoli,  is 
however,  simple  and  upon  beautiful  lines.  The  two 
cities,  Rome  and  Tivoli,  the  two  mountain  chains, 
the  Albans  and  the  Sabines,  watch  each  other  across 
the  plain  struggling  to  see  which  is  to  be  the  more 
resplendent.  Two  gardens  lie  about  the  Falconieri, 
one  cultivated,  the  other  abandoned,  a  moderate 
number  of  parterres  and  low,  shadowy  bushes.  In 
their  midst  is  a  great  basin  surrounded  by  cypresses, 
gigantic  candles  around  dead  water.  I  sat  down  in 
the  shade  of  these  funereal  watchers,  asking  impartial 
nature  to  teach  me  indulgence  toward  all  these  affecta- 
tions over  which,  little  by  little,  she  is  taking  back 
her  rights. 

The  masters  of  these  other  villas,  which  I  have  just 
visited,  have  always  followed  the  example  of  the  Al- 
dobrandini,  formerly  the  torture  of  trees  and  waters, 
today  the  example  of  allowing  leaves  to  grow  and 
waters  to  run  naturally ;  they  let  the  centaurs  crumble, 
and  plug  up  the  pipes,  the  flutes  rust  to  pieces,  and 
the  obscenities  shrivel  out  of  sight.  The  present 
masters  look  at  nothing  but  the  freshness  of  nature 
and  the  background  it  affords.  They  live  in  the  old 
casinos  and  make  no  effort  to  keep  up  the  child's 
play  in  which  our  only  interest  is  that  it  once  existed 
and,  above  all,  that  it  exists  no  longer.  Yet,  what  a 
lesson  the  Falconieri  of  today  gives  us;  the  gardens 
scarcely  saved  from  the  caterpillars,  the  house,  on 
the  contrary,  given  over  to  the  renovation  of  modern 


32  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

masons,  the  paintings  of  Maderno  vigorously  re- 
stored. Those  decorators  of  the  seventeenth  century 
were  full  of  ingenious  fancy,  they  knew  all  the  subtle- 
ties of  their  trade,  they  were  ignorant  of  what  gives 
the  flavour  to  art,  that  is  to  say,  restraint,  taste. 
At  least,  they  had  the  merit  of  putting  nothing  on 
their  interior  walls  that  swore  with  the  proclamation 
of  the  exterior — the  triumph  of  futility.  As  for  the 
lesson:  I  asked  the  workmen  the  reason  of  all  these 
changes.  They  told  me,  "For  the  Germans  who  are 
establishing  an  artistic  institute  here."1 

Yesterday  in  the  street,  I  heard  from  a  passing 
voice:  "It  is  like  those  Germans  to  come  here  and 
give  us  lessons  in  ethics!"  And  at  dinner  an  Italian 
said  to  me: 

"The  hill  of  the  Capitol  belongs  to  us  no  longer! 
It  is  occupied  almost  entirely  by  Germany.  As  for 
Austria,  two  of  her  palaces  in  Rome  are  on  the  two 
most  famous  squares  of  the  city,  the  Piazza  della 
Colonna  and  the  Piazza  di  Venezia." 

The  Italian  is  somewhat  uneasy  at  seeing  the  Ger- 
man install  himself  in  Italy;  but  he  must  admit  that 
the  Triple  Alliance  has  this  important  result  for  Italy : 
it  has  made  her  work.  The  great  industrial  and  com- 
mercial effort  of  Italy  dates  from  the  hour  when  she 

1  The  reader  is  reminded  that  this  book  was  written  before 
the  peace  of  Europe  was  broken.  This  and  some  other  passages 
were  suppressed,  with  the  author's  consent,  in  the  first  draft  of 
the  translation,  for  the  reason  that  in  English-speaking  countries 
M.  Maurel's  astute  observations  upon  Germany  and  Austria 
might  be  regarded  as  mere  French  prejudice. — H.  G. 


SNUFFERS  AND  SPINNING-WHEELS  33 

was  no  longer  in  a  position  to  ask  France  for  every- 
thing she  wanted;  from  the  hour  when,  entered  into 
the  European  civilization,  she  adopted  its  tastes, 
gave  herself  up,  if  you  will,  to  its  excesses.  Then, 
once  again,  Germany  invaded  Italy,  and  an  economist 
might  write  a  pretty  story  of  the  German  financial 
invasion  in  a  poor  country,  pushed  into  enterprise  by 
necessity.  Here  at  Frascati,  I  am  not  so  far  from 
Rome  that  I  forget  her  history  from  the  invasion  of 
Charlemagne  to  this  day. 

We  Latins  do  not  sufficiently  appreciate  that  the 
Germans,  still  the  old  Saxon-Germanic  race,  knows 
nothing  of  the  Latin  amenities,  of  the  refinements, 
that  charm  of  life  as  we  understand  it,  that  com- 
pound of  urbanity,  "politeness,"  as  foreigners  say  of 
us,  and  a  certain  indifference  to  the  material  profit 
when  the  spirit  or  the  mind,  by  which  I  mean  the 
same  thing,  is  satisfied.  In  spite  of  the  appetites  let 
loose  today,  at  bottom  the  Latin  culture  still  remains 
of  the  first  order.  We  shall  always  think,  as  Diderot 
said,  that  "the  things  of  life  have  their  price,  but  we 
must  always  ask  ourselves  what  is  the  price  of  the 
sacrifice  necessary  to  obtain  them,"  and  as  Renan 
did:  to  meditate,  to  conjecture,  to  speculate  upon 
matters  that  interest  us  must  always  be  the  most 
agreeable  of  occupations,  whatever  may  be  the  reality. 
The  German  does  not  understand  this  language,  and 
he  brings  into  his  relations  with  those  whom  he  selects 
for  his  business  affairs  a  brutality  that  the  Latin 
mind — nor  yet  his  cousin  the  Anglo-Saxon — cannot 
comprehend,  nor  even  admit  the  existence  of  when  it  is 


34  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

pointed  out  to  him.  The  German  soul  is  that  of  the 
brutal  and  insatiable  conqueror.  To  him  might  is 
the  law  of  the  world,  and  as,  in  his  own  opinion,  he 
has  the  greatest  strength  of  any  nation  of  the  earth, 
he  claims  all  right  as  his.  No  doubt  this  is  more 
true  of  Prussia,  that  artificial  military  nation,  than 
of  the  kingdoms  over  which  she  presides;  but  the 
others  follow  her  so  obediently  that  the  world  cannot 
be  expected  to  differentiate  amongst  them.  Prussia 
gives  the  key-note,  the  others  take  their  parts,  and 
all  Germany  sings  in  unison. 

Such  as  she  is,  Germany  has  come  into  Italy,  shod 
with  her  heavy  shoes,  which  she  rings  on  the  pave- 
ments wherever  she  goes,  that  everyone  may  know 
that  she  is  here  and  that  first  place  is  hers  by  right, 
as  she  is  the  strongest  of  any  present  or  to  come. 
She  must  have  the  Capitoline,  where  the  Palazzo 
Caffarelli,  which  had  long  been  the  property  of 
Prussia,  awaited  her.  But  she  must  double  the  area, 
and  today  she  occupies  more  than  half  of  the  hill. 
An  oversight  on  the  part  of  Napoleon  III.,  at  the 
drawing  up  of  the  treaty  of  Villafranca,  left  to  Austria 
the  Palazzo  San  Marco  which  should  have  been  re- 
turned to  Venice.  Austria  is  not  Germany,  you  say. 
Is  it  not?  Perhaps  no  less  in  Austria,  it  may  be  even 
more  than  in  Italy  and  everywhere  else  in  the  world, 
—and  we  are  not  forgetting  that  there  are  great 
countries  across  the  seas, — does  Germany  strut  about, 
talk  loud,  elbow  her  neighbours,  and  protest  as  if  she 
had  been  injured  whenever  any  one  does  anything 
without  having  asked  her  permission.  She  has  in- 


SNUFFERS  AND  SPINNING-WHEELS  35 

augurated  in  all  of  Europe,  if  not  in  other  continents, 
the  rule  of  the  big  fist.  Her  fist  is  the  biggest  and 
she  shakes  it  at  Italy  and  the  rest  of  us,  ruling,  repri- 
manding, ordering  us  about  and  spreading  herself 
grossly  over  us  all. 

After  giving  to  Italy  the  rank  of  a  Great  Power, 
by  the  Alliance,  which  it  suited  her  convenience  to 
make,  Germany  has  felt  that  the  new  kingdom  was 
the  special  object  of  her  condescension  and  benefits, 
and  she  rubs  it  in  on  all  occasions.  The  long-suffering 
Italian,  surprised  and  happy  to  find  himself  no  longer 
forced  to  be  a  mendicant  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  has 
endured  these  grand  airs  with  such  patience  that  his 
worst  enemy,  if  he  has  one,  cannot  accuse  him  of 
ingratitude.  But  he  now  begins  to  feel  that  his  pa- 
tience is  being  overstrained.  He  cannot  understand 
such  manners,  he  who  is  always  so  full  of  courtesy 
and  goodwill,  and,  although,  perhaps  a  little  sharp  at 
a  bargain,  always  so  happy  when  he  has  "speculated." 
When  he  sees  the  German  come  elbowing  his  way  like 
a  prize-fighter  through  his  Italy,  vaunting  his  superi- 
ority in  all  things  Italian  as  well  as  German,  seeming 
to  say  with  every  gesture,  "Fortunate  I  am  here," 
the  Italian  begins  to  look  up  and  to  scold.  Oh,  he 
scolds  as  he  does  everything,  nonchalantly,  smilingly, 
but  he  is  scolding.  "Have  the  times  of  Otho  and 
Barbarossa  come  back?"  he  asks.  His  fathers  have 
too  long  looked  with  terror  in  the  direction  of  the 
German  Alps  for  him  not  to  be  quick  to  take  up  the 
old  alarm.  He  knows  all  about  the  Italian  servitude 
that  followed  upon  the  coming  of  Charlemagne  and 


36  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

of  Charles  V.,  when  the  Germans  came  down  to 
protect  Italy  and  watch  over  her  welfare!  The 
Italian,  his  own  master  at  length,  does  not  look  on 
at  any  twentieth  century  imperial  visitations  with  for- 
getfulness  of  the  past  and  tranquillity  for  present  and 
future.  His  nature,  so  fundamentally  antipathic  to 
the  German  character,  may  not  fully  understand  the 
meaning  of  the  Teuton's  actions,  but  he  is  rubbed  the 
wrong  way  by  them  and  is  growing  to  hate  his  inso- 
lences and  brutalities  and  give  to  them  a  significance, 
an  importance  that  is  greater  than  they  merit;  and 
now,  every  time  that  he  sees  him  plant  his  foot  on 
another  piece  of  Italian  land  he  shivers  with  repulsion 
and  anxiety. 


FovirtK  Day 

THE  RIVAL  OF  VERSAILLES 

THe  Vatican,  tKe  Palace 

EFORE  looking  at  the  furniture  it  is  well 
to  see  the  house,  and,  even  if  it  were 
empty  the  Vatican  would  be  worthy  the 
most  careful  attention.  First  monu- 
ment of  the  Roman  Renaissance,  it  has 
been  enlarged,  embellished,  transformed — a  hundred 
years  in  the  building — without  losing  its  character;  the 
old  wing  of  Nicholas  V.  still  plunges  into  the  Piazza. 
This  vast  residence  of  the  popes  has  followed  all  the 
vicissitudes  of  its  princes ;  it  has  been  modest,  gorgeous, 
prudent,  and  thrifty.  To  us,  it  may  be,  first  of  all, 
the  servant  who  explains  the  master,  and  we  shall 
find  it  as  eloquent  as  the  Forum  or  the  Palatine, 
perhaps  more  so,  since  it  is  still  standing  in  grandiose 

37 


38  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

majesty,  unchanged  in  form  during  three  hundred 
years  and  occupied  by  the  race  of  its  ancient  lords. 
For  four  centuries,  the  life  of  almost  half  the  globe 
has  revolved  around  the  Vatican.  Even  now,  how 
many  people  still  regulate  their  actions,  all  their 
thoughts  and  actions,  according  to  its  opinions !  Yet, 
reverie  before  its  walls  is  impossible,  everything  is  so 
solid,  intact,  precise,  and  clear.  To  see  it,  such  as  it 
is,  is  to  see  the  growth  of  the  centuries  in  beauty,  in 
piety,  and  in  liberty.  And  not  the  least  interesting 
of  the  lessons  it  teaches  us  is  its  immobility,  since  the 
day  when  Pius  IX.  shut  up  the  Cortile  di  San  Damaso 
— the  great  entrance  court,  originally  open  to  the 
Piazza  just  in  front  of  Saint  Peter's  and  around  which 
stand  the  three  vast  wings  of  the  palace. 

On  the  right  of  the  Tiber  and  far  enough  from 
the  bank,  the  Vatican  Hill  rises,  steep  and  covered 
almost  entirely  by  Saint  Peter's  and  the  palace  with 
the  dependencies  and  gardens.  The  surroundings, 
except  the  ancient  Borgo,  that  quarter  of  Rome  par- 
ticularly of  the  Vatican,  limited  to  a  few  streets  before 
and  at  the  right  of  the  Piazza  di  San  Pietro,  kept  their 
ancient  character  until  the  recent  construction  of  an 
entirely  new  quarter  in  the  old  fields — the  Prati  di 
Castello.  But  that  has  not  thrown  down  the  cold 
and  inaccessible  walls  of  the  Vatican.  Seen  from  the 
Prati  side,  the  long,  yellow  expanse  is  glacial,  with  its 
rare  windows,  perched  upon  its  forbidding  rock. 
Only  the  light  irregularities  of  the  Belvedere  smile  a 
little  at  the  right  end  of  the  surly  flatness. 

On  the  side  of  the  Piazza,  the  palace  is  less  severe, 


THE  RIVAL  OF  VERSAILLES  39 

but  still  the  self-contained  and  distant  Vatican  that 
overlooks  the  magnificent  square  which  has  taught 
the  world  the  altogether  modern  feeling  of  the  majesty 
of  space.  There,  on  the  right,  above  Bernini's  Colon- 
nade, show  three  great,  square  storeys  in  a  mass  of 
noble  line  and  reddish  tint  that  braves  the  sun. 
This  is  the  new  part,  the  last  wing,  built  by  Sixtus  V. 
and  Clement  VIII.,  finished  in  1600,  and  where  the 
popes  have  lived  ever  since;  it  has  the  only  fagade 
looking  toward  Rome  and  from  its  great  windows 
they  can  see  all  of  Rome,  even  their  Lateran,  aban- 
doned for  the  exile  at  Avignon  and  to  which  the 
papacy  never  returned.  They  can  watch  the  tide  of 
pilgrims  and  tourists  crossing  the  Piazza,  to  disappear 
under  Bernini's  Colonnade  and  mount  his  resplendent 
Scala  Regia  on  their  way  to  Bramante's  loggia  and 
the  unassuming  old  palace  of  Nicholas  V.,  now  cele- 
brated the  world  over  for  the  Raphael  Rooms  and  the 
Borgia  Apartment. 

This  old  part  stands  opposite  the  present  pontiffs 
new  wing,  across  the  formerly  open  entrance  court, 
the  ample  rectangular  space  where  Innocent  X.  placed 
a  fountain  to  the  memory  of  his  sainted  predecessor, 
Damasus.  It  is  much  older  than  the  building  across 
the  end  of  the  court,  connecting  the  old  wing  with  the 
new  one  and  which  was  raised  by  Gregory  XIII. 

You  see  at  a  glance  that  the  old  part,  close  to  Saint 
Peter's,  is  altogether  unlike  its  younger  sisters :  redder, 
flatter,  more  thickset,  with  less  symmetrical  windows. 
Standing  behind  Bramante's  loggia,  it  has  a  modest 
air,  suggesting  a  venerable  personage  invited  to  a 


40  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

ceremony  of  great  pomp,  but  who  keeps  in  the  back- 
ground that  his  old  age  may  not  cast  gloom  over  the 
brilliant  company.  This  is  the  original  Palace  of  the 
Vatican,  built  in  the  fifteenth  century  by  the  Human- 
ist Nicholas  V.,  on  the  site  of  the  enlargements  made 
by  his  predecessors  of  the  simple  house  where,  some 
ten  centuries  earlier,  the  Pope  Symmachus  had  lived 
to  be  near  Peter's  tomb,  already  surrounded  by 
churches,  monasteries,  and  hospitals. 

When  the  popes  came  back  from  Avignon  in  1377, 
and  from  Constance,  some  forty  years  later,  they  heard 
but  faintly  the  grand  voice  of  the  Renaissance  which 
was  singing  round  about  them  throughout  Italy. 
Almost  another  quarter  century  passed  before  Nicho- 
las V.  began  to  listen  to  the  literary  hymn  that  had 
been  swelling  ever  since  the  cardinals,  bishops,  monks, 
and  laymen  who  attended  that  famous  Council  at 
Constance  had  brought  back  to  Rome  the  old  Greek 
and  Latin  books  found  in  the  convents  and  villages 
of  Germany,  Poggio  Bracciolini  more  than  any  of  the 
others.  You  remember  the  reason  why  in  Rome  it 
was  the  Renaissance  of  letters  that  began  the  great 
awakening  from  the  mental  sleep  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
When  Nicholas  V.,  with  the  thrill  of  this  new  life  in 
him,  conceived  his  plan  for  an  ample  pontifical  capitol, 
a  Vatican  which  should  be  the  largest  palace  in  the 
world,  he  faced  all  the  obstacles  of  the  barbarism  still 
surrounding  him.  He  could  buy  manuscripts  and 
have  them  copied  more  easily  than  he  could  find 
architects  and  painters.  But,  besides  Bernardo 
Rossellino,  to  make  a  new  Saint  Peter's,  he  called  Fra 


Anderson 


The  Court  of  the  Vatican 


Anderson 


The  Vatican  Gardens 


THE  RIVAL  OF  VERSAILLES  41 

Angelico  to  him,  and  the  painter  before  his  death  here, 
covered  with  frescoes  the  little  retreat  known  in  our 
day  as  the  Chapel  of  Nicholas  V.  Still  turning  toward 
the  Florentine  source,  the  pontiff  called  upon  Alberti 
to  draw  up  magnificent  plans  for  the  great  palace,  from 
which  was  built  only  the  modest  house  which  Julius 
II.  afterwards  hid  behind  Bramante's  loggia.  Sad 
evidence  of  the  ambitious  pope's  weakness  as  this 
was  considered  beside  the  building  done  in  other 
parts  of  Italy  at  that  moment,  the  little  palace  was 
enough  for  the  humanist  and  artistic  popes  of  a  cen- 
tury and  a  quarter:  Pius  II.,  more  interested  in  let- 
ters than  in  the  fine  arts;  Paul  II.,  under  whom  the 
Renaissance  made  some  progress  in  Rome,  but  whose 
resources  were  soon  exhausted  by  the  Palazzo  Venezia, 
and  who  was  before  everything  else  a  collector  of 
gems  and  jewels;  Sixtus  IV.,  so  eager  to  decorate  his 
library  that  for  some  time  he  did  not  think  of  calling 
Signorelli,  Perugino,  and  Botticelli  for  his  chapel. 
The  awakening  spread  under  Innocent  VIII.  who 
built  the  Belvedere  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  garden. 
Alexander  VI.  Borgia  called  Pinturicchio  and  added 
a  so-called  tower  to  Nicholas's  palace  which  we  do 
not  forget  was  open  to  the  Piazza,  in  front  of  the  time- 
worn  little  church  of  Saint  Peter's  and  the  scarcely 
begun  Rossellino  tribune  of  the  new  church  Nicholas 
V.  had  hoped  to  build;  there  was  no  colonnade  to 
hide  it  from  the  Piazza  and  no  loggia  to  cover  it  on 
the  side  of  the  garden. 

Hidden  though  it  is  now,  the  tide  of  the  world's 
travellers  flows  daily  to  see  the  two  storeys  of  five  or 


42  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

six  rooms  in  each,  the  Borgia  Apartment  on  the  first 
floor,  where  lived  Alexander  VI.  and  his  family;  and> 
above,  the  Raphael  Rooms  which  were  occupied  by 
Ceesar  Borgia.  When  Julius  II.  Rovere  came  to  the 
papal  home,  after  the  death  of  Alexander  VI.,  he  swept 
away  every  souvenir  of  his  notorious  predecessor, 
up  stairs  and  down,  summoning  several  painters  to 
redecorate  the  walls,  and  among  them  was  the  young 
Raphael  who  made  these  immortal  frescoes  in  Csesar 
Borgia's  apartment.  Julius  even  went  so  far  in  his 
purifications  and  alterations  as  to  commission  Bra- 
mante  to  hide  the  fagade  of  the  palace  giving  upon  the 
Cortile  di  San  Damaso  with  the  loggia, — which  Raphael 
decorated, — and  to  unite  the  palace  to  the  Belvedere 
with  the  galleries,  forming  the  court  of  the  Belvedere 
afterwards  divided  into  two  parts  by  Sixtus  V.'s 
library. 

Not  forgetting  the  importance  of  the  initiatives 
taken  by  the  preceding  popes,  one  may  say  that  the 
blossoming  of  the  art  of  the  Vatican  began  with  Julius 
II.,  the  only  pope,  up  to  that  time,  who  was  able  to 
realize  his  undertakings  on  the  scale  on  which  he 
planned  them.  Italy's  production  of  beautiful  work 
of  every  kind  had  reached  the  apogee  and  had  even 
begun  to  decline  when,  at  length,  Rome  made  her 
contribution  to  the  new  life  of  art.  And  in  Julius's 
galleries  and  the  Belvedere  grew  the  Museum  as  we 
see  it  today. 

The  Museum  of  the  Vatican  is  the  work  of  a  century, 
the  eighteenth.  Timid  beginnings  were  made,  it  is 
true,  by  Sixtus  IV.,  by  Paul  II.,  Innocent  VIII.,  and 


THE  RIVAL  OF  VERSAILLES  43 

also  by  Alexander  VI.  But  it  was  Julius  II.  who 
undertook  the  systematic  gathering  of  everything  of 
artistic  interest  out  of  the  Roman  ruins.  Two  hun- 
dred years  later  their  arrangement  and  classification 
was  begun.  The  first  skilled  workman  in  this  mag- 
nificent undertaking  was  Clement  XIV.  The  most 
ardent  were  Pius  VI.,  who  went  to  die  in  France, 
driven  out  of  Rome  by  the  Revolution,  and  Pius  VII. 
who  also  was  carried  away  to  France,  but  after  endur- 
ing Napoleon's  outrages,  saw  the  fall  of  his  enemy  and 
returned  to  take  up  his  task.  His  successors  finished 
it,  and  to  Gregory  XVI.  we  owe  the  Etruscan  and 
Egyptian  museums. 

The  work  of  Pius  VI.,  principally  architectural, 
consisted  in  disguising  the  original  arrangement  of 
the  Belvedere.  Time  had  come  when  people  liked 
regular  and  symmetrical  constructions.  Three  halls, 
the  Sala  a  Croce  Greca,  the  Sala  Rotunda,  and  the 
Sala  delle  Muse,  were  brought  into  the  new  harmony. 
They  present  a  profusion  of  marbles  of  all  colours,  of 
columns,  and  of  rich  ceilings ;  but  profusion,  variety, 
and  harmony.  Nowhere  can  one  see  a  museum  so 
wisely  sumptuous,  or  one  better  planned  and  arranged. 
The  works  keep  their  value,  rest  easily  against  a 
favourable  background,  under  an  equal  light  diffused 
in  the  right  places.  They  are  not  heaped  together, 
but  judiciously  placed.  The  Sala  Rotunda,  especially, 
is  incomparable,  with  its  immense  niches,  each  occu- 
pied by  a  single  statue.  The  Sala  delle  Muse,  so 
restrained  in  its  luxury,  leads  to  the  Belvedere — the 
charmingly  beautiful  Belvedere.  Around  a  flowering 


44  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

court,  kept  fresh  by  a  cistern,  extend  the  halls,  for 
the  most  part  decorated  at  the  purest  moment  of  the 
Renaissance.  Here  are  the  Sala  degli  Animali,  Gal- 
leria  delle  Statue,  the  Atrio  del  Meleagro  and  that  of 
the  Torso,  and,  above  all,  the  small,  round  rooms 
where  we  see  the  Apollo,  the  Mercury,  the  Laocoon, 
and  the  Perseus.  They  give  upon  the  open  gallery 
which  surrounds  the  garden.  Here,  too,  we  find  the 
charming  taste  of  those  clever  Romans  who  know 
how  to  mingle  their  eloquent  marbles  with  flowers. 
Farther  on,  backing  up  against  the  library  with 
which  Sixtus  V.  cut  the  old  Belvedere  Gardens 
in  two,  is  the  Braccia  Nuova,  the  New  Arm,  which 
we  owe  to  Pius  VII.,  admirable  in  arrangement,  deco- 
ration, and  light.  Last  of  all,  the  half  of  the  old 
Belvedere  Gardens  thus  cut  off  and  lying  between  the 
Braccia  Nuova  and  the  Belvedere,  with  the  galleries 
extending  on  either  side,  was  made  into  the  Giardino 
della  Pigna — the  Cone  Garden — with  its  two  gigantic 
palms,  its  antique  column,  its  semi-circle  where  stands 
the  pedestal  of  Antoninus  Pius,  the  peacocks  from 
Hadrian's  Villa,  and  the  colossal  pine-cone  from  the 
Pantheon,  from  which  this  delightful  garden  takes 
its  name. 

After  the  last  effort  of  Cassar  Borgia  to  unite  the 
country  under  his  own  powerful  hand,  Italy's  death 
agony  began,  and  in  that  hour  began  the  triumph  of 
the  papacy  and  of  the  Empire  of  Charles  V.,  of  the 
collecting  of  artistic  treasures  torn  from  no  matter 
whom  or  where,  which  has  been  continued  for  eight 
hundred  years.  The  popes  settled  themselves  amply, 


.s 

CB 
Cfl 


THE  RIVAL  OF  VERSAILLES  45 

making  the  show  of  rich  and  mighty  sovereigns  in 
a  flash  of  splendour  typified  in  the  art  of  Michel- 
angelo and  Raphael.  Gradually,  the  world  came 
back  to  the  road  to  Rome,  money  flowed,  artists 
found  their  way  here  in  search  of  work  and  sub- 
sistence under  Julius  III.,  under  Leo  X.,  and  under 
all  the  others.  It  was  the  epoch  of  the  Medicis 
and  the  Farnese.  Their  collections  were  soon 
scattered  by  a  saint,  Pius  V.,  who  distributed  the 
treasures  of  Rome  to  all  the  sovereigns  of  Europe, 
but  also  enriching  the  Roman  Museum  at  the 
Capitol  with  thirty  statues  and  some  hundred  busts. 
In  building,  however,  nothing  was  done.  Saint 
Peter's  absorbed  what  little  money  the  nephews  left 
to  uncle  pope. 

It  was  not  until  the  coming  of  Gregory  XIII.,  when 
Saint  Peter's  finished,  the  nepotic  anarchy  dammed 
up,  and  order  established  in  the  finances,  that  it  was 
possible  to  think  of  enlarging  the  Vatican.  Building 
was  resumed  toward  the  year  1575  and  in  twenty-five 
years  it  was  done.  The  time  had  come  in  which 
Divine  Majesty  was  to  be  represented  by  an  imposing 
terrestrial  majesty.  The  papal  power  was  then  un- 
disputed, everything  was  under  it,  and  enthroned  it 
should  shine.  There  remained  one  last  step  to  take, 
however.  The  wide-open  Vatican  was  decidedly 
familiar,  its  doors  might  be  entered  by  everyone  who 
came;  the  palace  should  have  some  of  the  mystery 
and  awe  which  surrounds  majesty.  How  could  he 
who  ruled  within  be  indeed  a  king  until,  like  a  king, 
he  became  inaccessible?  Bernini's  colonnade,  de- 


46  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

signed  as  the  portico  of  Saint  Peter's,  served  this  royal 
purpose.  The  pope  was  walled  in  behind  a  door 
hidden  by  these  columns  which  were  linked  together 
by  chains:  "the  palace  without  fagade  and  almost 
without  access,"  says  M.  Anatole  France.  It  was  a 
coincidence  only  in  appearance  that  Bernini's  colon- 
nade was  built  precisely  at  the  moment  when  Versailles 
arose  from  the  ground. 

There  still  remained  to  furnish  this  dwelling,  which 
was  in  all  respects  the  equal  of  the  palace  of  the  Most 
Christian  King,  but  which  was  designed  to  surpass  it 
in  testimony  of  the  superiority  of  its  papal  master  over 
all  other  earthly  rulers.  This  was  the  great  epoch  of 
the  Aldobrandini,  the  Borghese,  the  Ludovisi,  the 
Barberini,  the  Pamfili,  the  Chigi,  the  Rospigliosi,  the 
Albani,  whose  names  today  call  up  visions  of  magni- 
ficent palaces  and  villas.  The  heads  of  those  families 
were  popes,  and  the  Vatican  led  the  pillage  of  ancient 
Rome  to  enrich  its  own  gallery,  encouraging  its 
nephews  and  cousins,  also,  to  lay  violent  hands  upon 
the  spoils  for  the  decoration  of  their  palaces,  villas,  and 
gardens.  Up  to  the  time  of  Clement  XIV.,  papal 
Rome  was  given  over  to  an  orgy  of  marbles:  we  see 
the  effects  of  it  everywhere.  In  1769,  Clement  XIV. 
began  to  arrange  the  Vatican  treasures  methodically 
in  the  Museum,  a  great  work  which  has  been  con- 
tinued up  to  our  own  day  by  popes  who  not  only  re- 
spected the  past,  but  appreciated  what  a  source  of 
income  their  treasures  might  be  to  the  budget  of  the 
Vatican.  The  remarkable  care  expended  upon  the 
Museum  shows  that  those  sentiments  still  live.  We 


THE  RIVAL  OF  VERSAILLES  47 

are  in  a  money-making  age;  everyone  exploits  his 
capital,  and  from  hers  the  business-like  Vatican,  with 
the  foremost  capitalists  of  the  world,  draws  now  and 
always  will  draw  most  legitimate  profits. 


FiftH  Day 

THE  LACUS  CURTIUS 

THe  Vatican  Anticfuitiea 

T  is  an  undertaking  merely  to  walk 
through  the  Vatican  galleries,  but 
exaltation  leads  and  joy  sustains  the 
hardy  enthusiast  so  long  as  he  but 
dreams  and  feels  the  wonder  and 
beauty  amid  which  he  walks.  When,  however,  the 
moment  comes  for  him  to  recapitulate,  to  verify  and 

48 


THE  LACUS  CURTIUS  49 

analyse  what  he  has  seen,  his  elation  collapses,  he 
stops  before  an  abyss.  For  three  days  I  have  been 
refusing  to  look  at  it,  turning  this  way  and  that 
to  flee  from  its  mirage.  Every  outlet  is  now  shut. 
Like  Curtius,  I  must  jump  into  the  chasm,  even 
though  it  be  to  bury  myself  there  with  him.  For  so 
many  years,  I  have  been  dreaming  of  Rome,  preparing 
for  this  happy  moment.  I  have  been  all  over  Italy  to 
make  myself  ready,  wanting  to  come  on  a  chariot  armed 
with  knives.  Tuscany,  Venetia,  Emilia,  the  Marches, 
Umbria,  were  but  stages  where  I  studied  for  Rome. 
Then,  for  yet  another  winter  I  worked,  so  that, 
fresh  with  art  and  history,  all  my  faculties  might  be 
awakened  and  in  harmony  with  what  I  should  meet. 
And  here  I  am  stricken  dumb.  "I  did  not  think," 
said  Goethe,  "that  I  should  have  to  go  back  to  school. 
I  am  like  an  architect  who  has  begun  to  build  a  tower 
and  finds  that  he  has  placed  it  upon  a  poor  founda- 
tion." That  is  my  case.  If  any  one  should  ask  me 
what  has  been  my  strongest  impression  since  I  alighted 
from  the  train  upon  the  Piazza,  delle  Terme,  I  should 
only  say:  Pity  for  myself.  How  I  felt  it  in  the 
Forum!  But  a  certain  happiness  of  having  verified 
the  causes  and  the  values  of  things,  which  comes 
to  me  every  evening,  is  helping  me  to  overcome  my 
discouragement.  A  fresh  wind  seemed  to  cool 
my  forehead  yesterday,  as  I  looked  while  I  ran 
at  the  things  which  I  shall  see  today.  I  have 
but  felt  as  Goethe  felt,  as  everyone  feels,  when 
among  the  marbles  of  Antiquity  for  the  first  time, 
a  derision  of  one's  self,  a  feeling  that  nothing  was 

4 


50  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

worth  while  in  all  the  other  places  where  one  has 
been  living. 

After  a  visit  to  the  Greeks,  a  man  who  has  any 
thought  for  his  intellectual  power,  for  his  real  taste, 
finds  that  he  must  set  up  new  standards  and  ideals 
for  himself.  If  he  is  not  a  weak  fool,  he  must  admit 
that  he  has  never  seen  and  never  learned  anything 
worth  retaining  if  he  has  not  seen,  learned,  penetrated 
to  the  heart  of  that  beauty.  All  his  former  ideas  of 
beauty  upset  and  fall  down  around  him.  Some  in 
which  he  used  to  delight  are  thrown  away,  and  others, 
a  very  few,  are  brought  into  a  new  place  in  the  front 
ranks;  but  everything  must  now  conform  to  his  new 
standard,  and  when  he  goes  back  over  his  memories 
it  is  like  walking  through  a  hospital  of  incurables. 
He  is  prostrated  before  his  self-conceit  and  his  igno- 
rance, for  he  must  recognize  that  he  has  constructed 
his  pyramid  beginning  at  the  point,  since  he  has  been 
thrilled  with  admiration  for  things  that  he  no  longer 
can  admire.  They  are  beautiful  still,  no  doubt,  and 
intrinsically,  though  not  for  the  reasons  that  he 
thought;  but  in  quite  another  way.  He,  too,  must 
have  his  renaissance,  must  make  over  on  another  base 
all  his  sense  for  beauty.  Who  ever  comes  into  touch 
with  the  antique  must  become  a  new  man,  if  the  ob- 
ject of  his  life  is  to  enrich  and  strengthen  his  soul,  to 
extend  its  limits,  widen  its  vision.  You  enter  Rome 
Octavius,  you  leave  it  Caesar  Augustus;  you  are  a 
Roman  still,  but  the  tribunes  of  the  people  know  you 
no  longer. 

Is  this  an  experience  of  our  own  time  only?    That 


THE  LACUS  CURTIUS  51 

which  happened  to  Goethe,  that  which  happens  to 
all  who  come  here  in  not  too  light  a  frame  of  mind, 
is  the  very  history  of  this  land,  the  experience  of  all 
those  who  have  lived  in  it,  from  the  day  that  they 
have  tasted  beauty,  whether  they  have  produced  it 
or  whether  they  have  discovered  it  under  the  ashes 
and  the  herbage. 

When  the  children  of  Romulus  attained  the  age  at 
which  they  could  appreciate  the  sentiment  of  perfec- 
tion, chance — but  is  there  any  chance? — took  them 
to  the  Hellenic  shores.  They  returned  loaded  with 
spoils.  And,  from  that  time,  all  invention  was  para- 
lysed in  them.  They  had,  at  their  first  step  abroad, 
come  upon  the  beautiful  in  its  most  complete  expres- 
sion; and  altogether  satisfied  with  it,  they  never  tried 
to  express  it  in  their  own  way.  They  have,  no  doubt, 
shown  some  independence  in  architecture,  an  art  in 
which  a  certain  initiative  is  imposed  by  the  social  and 
domestic  conditions,  by  the  soil  and  the  climate.  As 
for  the  plastic  art,  the  ships  of  the  legions  brought 
back  such  perfect  models  that  they  have  been  sufficient 
for  the  Roman  civilization  to  this  day.  The  Roman 
sculptors  never  tired  of  imitating  them.  There  are 
still  to  be  counted  more  than  seventy  copies  of  Prax- 
iteles' Faun  in  Repose.  Even  when  the  Roman  genius 
risked  itself  in  some  original  work,  so  deeply  was  it 
under  the  Greek  influence  that  only  close  study  can 
distinguish  it  from  Greek  work. 

Rome  was  so  impregnated  with  pure  and  com- 
plete beauty  that  there  was  no  need  to  create  it. 
The  Romans  were  so  filled  with  it  that  they  did  not 


52  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

know  how  to  live  without  it  or  away  from  the  land 
of  Greece  where  they  had  apprehended  the  great 
miracle.  They  wanted  to  possess  all  of  it,  and  one 
fine  day  they  emigrated  in  its  direction.  Historians 
tell  us  that  the  emperors  fell  back  eastward  before 
the  wave  of  barbarism  that  rushed  down  from  the 
North,  carrying  their  treasures  with  them,  and  so 
the  Greek  masterpieces  again  saw  the  happy  shores 
where  they  were  born.  Constantinople  was  filled 
with  the  Roman  spoils  of  Greece.  But  that  exodus 
was  not  solely  a  flight  from  the  barbaric  invasion,  a 
result  of  the  decadence  of  the  Empire,  it  was  not 
caused  alone  by  the  corruption  and  pride  of  the 
emperors.  Rome  had  received  too  strongly  the  kiss 
of  the  antique.  She  aspired  to  live  upon  the  ground 
which  had  given  birth  to  beauty.  Those  statues 
made  her  ashamed:  she  blushed  at  the  theft  of  them, 
and  was  sad  over  their  exile.  Was  it  Rome  which 
carried  them  to  Byzantium,  or  was  it  they  which 
forced  Rome  to  take  them  back  to  live  under  their 
own  skies?  Certainly  Constantinople  was  filled  with 
Greek  spoils  carried  there  by  the  Romans. 

This  domination  to  which  the  Romans  submitted 
was  felt  also  by  the  popes.  When  they  discovered 
the  Greek  statues  under  the  works  that  their  fathers 
had  left,  they,  too,  could  no  longer  conceive  of  others. 
If  any  sovereigns  ever  possessed  the  power  to  call 
forth  the  development  of  genius,  it  was  the  popes,  but 
look  everywhere,  no  more  in  the  time  of  the  Renais- 
sance than  in  the  time  of  the  Roman  Republic  was 
there  a  Roman  art.  At  the  hour  when  all  Italy 


THE  LACUS  CURTIUS  53 

was  putting  forth  like  the  field  of  Cincinnatus,  Rome 
was  sterile.  The  artists  who  worked  for  her  were  not 
her  children.  To  cite  but  the  foremost,  Michelangelo 
was  Florentine,  Raphael  and  Pinturicchio  were  Um- 
brian,  Bramante,  too,  was  from  Urbino.  There  was 
no  Roman  school,  no  Roman  art,  even  at  the  time 
when  the  smallest  city  of  Italy  had  its  flourishing 
school.  The  Vatican  Picture  Gallery,  it  is  true, 
contains  a  few  works  of  art  which  give  it  a  great  repu- 
tation, but,  aside  from  the  fact  that  they  were  done 
by  strangers,  to  appreciate  its  poverty  one  has  only 
to  think  for  a  moment  of  the  Uffizzi  at  Florence. 
Those  who  made  these  collections  had  the  same  fate 
as  their  ancestors,  the  same  experience  as  our  own; 
from  the  hour  that  they  knew  the  antique,  they  had 
no  real  interest  in  anything  else.  If  one  of  them 
gave  to  Canova  a  place  in  the  Belvedere,  which  seems 
to  us  usurped,  it  was  done  entirely  because  of  a  cer- 
tain appearance  of  Greek  inspiration  in  his  work,  to 
which  it  was  but  natural  to  give  him  recognition  in 
this  place. 

The  later  Romans,  too,  were  intoxicated  with  the 
antique,  with  the  copies  that  the  emperors  had  not 
carried  away,  piously  guarding  them  from  such  a 
fate  as  that  which  befell  their  exiled  sisters,  sunk 
or  broken  by  the  Turks,  or  the  still  sadder  fate 
of  some  forgotten  works  exiled  on  the  banks  of  the 
Thames.  In  Rome,  at  least,  they  live  among  their 
children,  reigning  over  their  posterity.  Those  that 
Napoleon  brought  away,  Paris  was  obliged  to  give 
back  to  the  land  the  least  foreign  to  them,  to  the 


54  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

skies  they  used  to  know,  the  same  southern  sky,  at 
least,  under  which  they  were  born.  The  Roman 
Republic,  modern  Rome,  and  all  the  pilgrims  of  all 
time  have  cared  for  nothing,  and  can  care  for 
nothing,  when  once  they  have  tasted  it,  but  this  sub- 
lime and  perfect  art,  exclusive  and  consuming. 

Yet  we  see  it,  in  its  Roman  translation,  only  disfig- 
ured, first  by  scratches  and  polishing,  and  then  by  re- 
storations. This  treatment  is  excused  by  saying  that 
the  evil  was  done  by  the  men  of  the  Renaissance  and 
the  centuries  immediately  following,  and  that  the  moral 
sentiments  of  modern  times  made  it  necessary  to  put 
them  in  museums.  How  the  times  have  changed! 
Now  we  must  make  buildings  for  them,  instead  of 
having  them  decorate  our  halls  and  gardens  as  they 
used  to  do.  I  admit  that  one  cannot  make  use  of  a 
broken  mirror  or  a  torn  umbrella  simply  because  the 
glass  or  the  silk  is  ancient ;  but  I  do  not  see  why  that 
limitation  need  be  applied  to  statues.  Their  presence 
at  a  ball  is  not  a  reason  for  disfiguring  them,  and  the 
awkwardness  of  their  attitudes  does  nothing  to  save 
them.  The  Italians  really  have  a  problem  that  should 
be  solved;  a  people  so  entirely  without  the  sense  of 
symmetry  in  architecture,  never,  perhaps,  having 
constructed  a  palace  or  a  church  which  does  not  limp 
in  some  detail,  yet  who  set  upon  the  statues  with  the 
imperative  necessity  of  a  touching  ignorance  either 
to  finish  them  or  to  make  them  over  "as  good  as  new." 
Look  at  them:  head  awry,  as  that  of  Myron's  Dis- 
cobolus; hands  clasped  about  a  roll,  as  the  Demosthenes 
which  had  the  hands  crossed;  the  raised  arm,  which 


Anderson 


Andersc 


Apollo  Belvedere  in  the  Vatican       Apoxyomenos  in  the  Vatican  Museui 
Museum 


Anderson  Anderso 

Apollo  Sauroctonos  in  the  Vatican  Amazon  in  the  Vatican  Museum 

Museum 


Anderson 


Julia  Pia  in  the  Vatican  Museum         Jupiter  of  Otricoli  in  the  Vatican 

Museum 


Anderson 


The  Vatican  Museum 


THE  LACUS  CURTIUS  55 

was  low,  in  fact,  of  fheLaocoon;  the  eyes  added  to  the 
Minerva,  the  Pudicitia  with  the  distorted  hand,  the 
Apoxyomenos  himself  done  up,  the  Wounded  Amazon 
furnished  with  the  feet  of  a  plough-boy,  a  Venus 
made  by  placing  the  head  of  a  woman  on  the  body  of 
Apollo! 

What  must  be  the  force  of  this  beauty  to  survive 
such  outrages!  Aside  from  the  fact  that  I  should  do 
it  with  so  much  less  science  and  authority  than  many 
others,  I  cannot  in  these  light  pages  explain  the  philo- 
sophy of  antique  art.  I  wish,  only,  to  select  two  or 
three  of  the  traits  which  have  moved  me  the  most. 
The  first  of  these,  that  which  dominates  all  the  others, 
is  the  legitimate  rank,  rendered  at  length,  to  the  human 
body.  Taine  who  saw  that,  but,  it  seems  to  me, 
rather  short-sightedly,  limited  the  interest  to  the 
cult  of  the  nude,  due  to  the  physical  life  at  a  time 
when  the  culture  of  the  body  held  first  place.  That 
was  true,  but  it  was  not  only  that.  The  Greeks  had 
more  than  their  love  of  beautiful  bodies,  they  had  a 
very  clear  appreciation  of  the  eloquence  of  the  body 
and  its  part  in  the  expression  of  the  sentiments  which 
agitate  the  soul.  No  doubt  the  ancient  Greek  man- 
ner of  living  had  its  part  in  rendering  an  arm  or  a 
leg  as  mobile  as  a  forehead,  but  the  Greeks  loved  the 
arm  and  the  leg  still  more  for  what  they  could  express 
than  for  their  mere  form,  pure  as  it  might  be.  In 
their  daily  life  they  were  nude  under  light  draperies 
which  they  let  fall  every  moment,  and  they  knew  that 
it  is  not  the  face  alone  which  expresses  the  agitations 
of  the  mind.  The  entire  body  participates  in  the 


56  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

emotions  of  the  soul  and  expresses  them:  that  office  is 
not  confined  to  the  head.  The  head  has  eyes,  yet  a  still 
face  or  the  face  of  a  sleeper,  is  sometimes  terrible. 
The  entire  body  can  be  like  the  sleeping  face:  its 
tensions  and  relaxations  are  resources  of  multiple 
expression.  The  head  has  its  place,  nothing  more 
than  first  place;  it  is  not  all.  Sixth  or  seventh  part 
of  the  human  body — Polycletus  gave  it  but  the  tenth 
part, — if  the  body  also  can  express  emotion,  it  is  not 
fair  to  leave  it  all  to  the  head.  Our  climate  and  our 
manners  have  fixed  in  us  the  habit  of  looking  for 
such  expression  of  sentiments  only  in  the  face.  The 
Greeks  looked  at  the  entire  body,  which,  under  float- 
ing, and  often  transparent,  draperies  had  its  legitimate 
part  in  their  mental  life.  See  this  Juno,  majestic  in 
the  purity  of  her  nude  flesh,  and  these  other  two,  in 
dresses  more  or  less  short ;  see  the  muscled  and  tender 
body  of  Mercury,  or  of  the  Wounded  Amazon,  vibrat- 
ing in  her  virginity.  All  these  immobile  bodies, 
except  that  of  Venus,  goddess  of  love,  are  modestly 
dressed.  Besides,  action  ennobles  and  purifies  the 
nude.  Look  at  them.  Are  you  surprised  that  they 
express  so  much? 

But  do  not  think  these  emphases  are  concentrated 
on  the  torso  and  the  members;  they  are  quite  as 
marked  when  the  artist  is  occupied  with  the  head 
alone.  The  Doryphorus,  the  Apollo,  the  Sauroctonus, 
eloquent  in  all  their  bodies  as  they  are,  really  are  no 
more  so  than  the  bust  of  Zeus  from  Otricoli,  or  the 
Pericles,  the  first  of  such  subtile  indulgence,  the  second 
so  balanced  and  thoughtful.  Nothing  that  the  Greeks 


THE  LACUS  CURTIUS  57 

did,  even  to  animals,  but  possessed  this  gift  of  life. 
If  any  of  their  successors  might  be  recalled  here,  it  is 
Correggio  alone  whom  I  should  evoke  beside  the  artists 
of  Greece.  With  all  the  differences  appreciated,  in 
his  pictures  I  find  the  same  pleasure  that  these  sculp- 
tures give  me  as  I  look  at  the  turn  of  the  forms  in  the 
light,  and  I  see  in  them  both  the  same  purpose  to 
express  emotion.  The  antique  has  nothing  of  that 
which  we  demand  of  our  artists  today:  the  restraint 
of  impassivity.  It  is  everything  rather  than  serene. 
It  is  full  of  movement,  it  even  tells  a  story.  Only  in 
the  archaic  period  does  it  rest  immobile.  It  is  of  a 
people  who  loved  life  too  much  not  to  follow  it  closely 
in  their  art.  See  the  Muses  around  the  Apollo  musa- 
getes.  It  is  not  alone  their  faces,  grave  or  gay,  that 
tell  us  who  they  are,  nor  yet  their  attributes.  The 
body  of  each  one  expresses  its  function,  and  the 
attitude  accentuates  the  idea.  Apollo  flies  just  above 
the  ground,  his  fingers  trembling  upon  the  cords  of 
his  flute,  his  head  raised  high,  the  tunic  lying  upon 
his  thighs  under  the  wind  which  glues  it  to  the  flesh. 
Terpsichore  is  seated,  but  the  right  leg  has  already 
raised  to  the  breast  and  she  is  about  to  spring.  Calli- 
ope, her  hand  raised  above  some  tablets,  knits  her 
brow,  her  lip  shows  the  contraction  of  thought,  while 
the  firmness  with  which  she  stands  upon  her  two  feet 
indicates  her  perspicacity.  Diana  quiets  her  nymphs. 
Meleager  excites  his  pack.  Niobe  bounds.  The 
Apoxyomenos  is  full  of  scornful  pride,  and  all  the 
animals  show  their  instincts.  It  is  a  world  let  loose, 
wonderfully  alive,  with  a  boldness  of  expression  which 


58  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

no  one  would  dare  attempt  today.  No  one  now 
sees  so  much  movement  in  the  human  body,  so  much 
vibration,  no  one  sees  it  taking  such  part  in  the  plastic 
expression  of  the  sentiments  which  agitate  it.  This 
explains  the  Romans'  liking  for  Canova.  To  our 
eyes,  his  Perseus,  his  Pugilists  are  not  worthy  to 
stand  in  the  midst  of  these  Greeks,  but  let  us  take 
care  that  we  appreciate  his  vibrations  of  the  entire 
body.  Canova  assimilated  all  that  a  man  of  his 
century  could  learn  from  his  ancestors. 

He  was  made  much  of  because  he  offered  the  same 
appearances,  if  not  the  same  soul.  It  is  of  the  latter 
quality  that  I  would  speak  more  precisely.  The  Greeks 
knew  how  to  produce  audacious  movement  and  expres- 
sion of  the  whole,  a  sum  total  of  expression,  but  with 
the  restraint  that  never  wandered  from  the  point 
nor  went  beyond  their  goal.  If  you  see  a  pose  that 
shocks  you,  look  closer  and  you  will  see  that  it  is  due 
to  an  awkward  restoration.  Or,  if  that  is  difficult  to 
detect,  compare  the  complete  statues  with  the  muti- 
lated ones:  while  the  former  may  appear  stiff,  as  the 
Penelope,  for  instance,  the  latter,  so  strong  and  free 
are  they,  give  at  once  the  impression  of  perfection. 
The  famous  Torso  can  give  to  no  one  the  idea  of  ex- 
cess. An  artist  looking  at  it  must  say  to  himself 
that  it  tells  him  that  everything  is  permissible — but 
on  condition  that  he  keep,  as  does  the  Torso,  within 
the  limits  of  taste,  not  the  passing  taste  of  the  day, 
but  eternal  good  taste,  which  is  equilibrium.  At  the 
time  when  other  people  were  but  beginning  to  com- 
prehend the  beauty  of  human  life,  the  Greeks  had 


THE  LACUS  CURTIUS  59 

learned  to  know  it,  and  when  they  represented  it  in 
art  they  knew  its  true  limits,  within  which  they  could 
let  it  bloom  out  in  all  its  freedom.  They  held  the 
balance  in  their  souls.  However  intoxicated  with 
enthusiasm  they  might  be,  they  never  over-tipped 
the  scale.  Life  in  full  movement  was  all  about  them, 
they  were  full  of  it,  their  eyes  always  upon  it.  They 
could  no  more  escape  it  than  it  could  steal  away  from 
them.  What  need  had  they  to  dream,  to  search,  to 
improvise,  when  they  had  only  to  see?  The  palpitat- 
ing human  form  expressing  every  feeling  they  had 
but  to  seize  as  they  saw  it.  We  today  must  arouse 
it  to  lightning  flashes ;  they  basked  in  its  rays.  Every- 
thing was  before  their  eyes  and  that  was  sufficient 
to  keep  them  within  the  restraints  of  good  taste. 
In  the  Braccio  Nuovo  is  a  Roman  work  of  the  most 
captivating  grace;  Julia,  the  daughter  of  Titus. 
What  a  fine,  serene  creature,  what  beautiful  health 
and  solidity,  what  strong  shoulders  and  bosom!  But 
how  the  hair  brought  forward  in  heavy  mass  casts  a 
shadow  on  her  face!  The  Roman  artist  who  would 
be  a  realist  like  the  Greeks,  in  copying  this  coiffure 
did  not  perceive  its  superficiality,  its  ephemeral 
quality  of  that  blemish  which  offends  us  at  the  first 
glance. 

On  the  other  hand,  look  in  the  face  of  the  Wounded 
Amazon,  see  the  undulating  hair  so  noble  in  its  neglect, 
so  strong  in  its  appeal,  but  in  its  place,  and  you  will 
appreciate  all  the  distance  between  the  inspirer  and 
the  inspired. 

The  human  body  expressive  in  all  its  surface  speaks 


60  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

as  a  whole  of  joy  or  sorrow.  This  language  to  be 
followed  in  all  its  phases  was  the  daily  sight  offered 
to  the  eyes  of  the  Greek  artists.  Their  models  who 
were  constantly  before  them, — and  no  need  to  pose 
them, — taught  the  Greeks  exactitude  and  simplicity. 
Such,  among  a  hundred  others,  are  the  characteristics 
which  have  impressed  me  the  most.  At  the  end  of 
several  hours  among  these  attitudes  and  these  appeals, 
one  gradually  feels  himself  become  another  man  than 
the  one  he  was  when  he  came  in  here.  He  is  no  longer 
in  a  museum.  He  is  presiding  over  an  assembly. 
This  living  museum  which  Rome  seemed  to  be,  takes 
concrete  form  at  length. 

When  the  closing  bell  rang,  a  friend  said  to  me: 
"I  should  like  to  climb  upon  a  pedestal." 

"You  would  be  ridiculous,"  I  said,  "but  not  for 
the  reason  that  you  think.  Quite  nude  you  would 
feel  the  loss  of  accustomed  ways,  but  it  would  not 
be  only  that  you  would  miss.  This  Greek  humanity 
would  surround  you,  would  recognize  you,  treat  you 
as  a  brother.  For  the  first  time  among  men  you  would 
not  feel  solitary." 


Sixth  Day 

THE  KISS  OF  THE  BELVEDERE 

THe  Vatican  Frescoes 

O  say  that  all  of  the  Renaissance  wel- 
comed by  Rome  was  sheltered  in  the 
wing  of  the  Vatican  named  for  Nicholas 
V.  would  be  ingratitude  toward  certain 
churches  and  galleries  and,  especially, 
toward  certain  palaces  such  as  the  Palazzo  della  Can- 
celleria.  If,  however,  in  saying  this  one  is  thinking 
principally  of  painting,  it  is  certain  that  the  painters  of 
the  Quattrocento  received  here  more  than  anywhere 
else  in  Rome  the  reception  of  which  they  were  worthy. 
It  is  certain,  too,  that  it  was  here  that  Michelangelo 
and  Raphael  put  the  final  touch  to  the  art  created  by 
Giotto  two  hundred  years  before.  So,  let  us  hasten  to 
the  wing  of  Nicholas  V.  which  received  all  of  its  deco 

61 


62  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

rations,  except  the  Last  Judgment,  within  a  space  of 
about  fifty  years.  Yet  these  artists  to  whom  the  new 
wings  and  the  transformed  Rome  were  given  over  must 
have  drawn  inspiration  for  their  trade  from  the  two 
geniuses  whom  they  could  not  equal,  since  they  never 
asked  the  masters  of  the  Renaissance  for  their  lessons 
in  simplicity,  in  conscientiousness,  and  in  truth. 

The  first  painters  summoned  to  the  Vatican  were  Fra 
Angelico,  Benedetto,  Bonfigli,  and  Piero  della  Fran- 
cesca.  Of  the  works  of  the  two  last  named  nothing 
now  remains.  Caesar  Borgia  thought  over  his  great 
plans  among  the  Umbrian  landscapes  of  Piero  and 
Benedetto  which  afterwards  gave  place  to  the  pictures 
of  their  supreme  descendants,  Raphael  and  his  fellow 
Umbrian,  Pinturicchio.  Fra  Angelico  consecrated  his 
last  days  to  Rome,  dying  here  at  the  same  time  as  did 
Nicholas  V.  What  admirer  of  San  Marco  has  not 
lingered  with  emotion  before  his  tomb  at  Santa  Maria 
Sopra  Minerva?  Nicholas  had  been  able  to  judge  of 
Fra  Angelico's  merits  from  the  chapel  of  the  Holy 
Sacrament  in  Saint  Peter's,  since  destroyed.  Indeed 
the  credit  of  having  called  him  to  Rome  was  due  to 
Eugene  IV.,  upon  whose  death  Angelico  had  left  for 
Orvieto,  to  be  recalled  by  Nicholas  V.,  whom,  with  all 
Italy,  Florence  had  set  aflame  for  the  new  art.  We 
owe  to  him  the  only  Roman  testimony  we  have  in 
favour  of  the  early  Renaissance.  Was  it  the  most 
beautiful?  It  is  useless  and  vain  to  assign  rank. 
The  ladies  and  the  lords  who  listened  to  the  preaching 
of  Stephen  and  the  beggars  who  received  alms  at  the 
hands  of  Lawrence  are  among  the  most  tender  and 


THE  KISS  OF  THE  BELVEDERE  63 

the  most  accomplished  productions  of  the  gifted 
Florentine  monk.  All  his  genius  is  here,  all  his  heart 
also;  but  the  heart  is  already  that  of  an  old  man, 
burning  with  a  flame  less  white,  less  delicate  than 
before.  One  feels  that  the  good  and  gentle  Brother 
John  who,  at  San  Marco,  painted  for  the  love  of  God, 
here  painted  in  answer  to  a  lower  call.  It  is  not  far 
from  Orvieto  to  Rome.  For  Angelico  a  world  lay 
between  the  two  cities;  all  the  distance  which  separates 
heavenly  faith  from  earthly  obedience.  He  had  done 
so  much  work,  too.  I  am  tempted  to  draw  between 
the  innocent  freshness  of  the  cells  of  San  Marco  and 
the  professional  confidence  of  this  chapel  the  same 
comparison  that  exists  between  the  frescoes  of  Prato 
and  those  of  Spoleto,  painted  by  that  other  brother, 
the  libertine  Filippo  Lippi  with  the  great  difference 
that  here  is  always  the  mark  of  the  charming  and  holy 
brother,  only  I  no  longer  see  his  innocent  happiness. 
Three  popes  and  sixteen  years  passed  between 
Nicholas  V.  and  Sixtus  IV.,  the  years  of  the  first 
Borgia,  of  Calixtus,  of  Pius  II.  the  Humanist,  and  of 
Paul  II.  the  Venetian,  who  was  occupied  with  his 
palace  at  the  foot  of  the  Capitol  and  with  his  gems. 
Sixtus  IV.  was  able  to  realize  in  part  that  which 
Nicholas  had  but  attempted.  His  first  cares  were  to 
enrich  his  family  and  to  conspire  against  Florence. 
When  he  had  provided  for  his  loved  ones  and,  after 
the  failure  of  the  Pazzi  plot,  renounced  all  plans  for 
the  suppression  of  the  Medici,  his  great  desire  was 
to  bring  together  at  Rome  that  which  the  Romagnas 
divided  up  among  his  nephews,  and  that  which  Flor- 


64  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

ence,  restive  under  his  advances,  possessed  of  illus- 
trious and  gifted  men.  He  called  Melozzo  to  whom, 
as  a  good  Humanist,  he  confided  the  decoration  of  his 
library.  That  of  it  which  remains,  at  the  Pinacoteca, 
represents  the  pope  surrounded  by  his  nephews, 
Pietro  the  bully,  and  the  future  Julius  II.  Let  us 
look  thoroughly  at  this  fresco;  first,  for  its  real  beauty 
in  which  the  art  of  chiaroscuro,  learned  by  Melozzo 
from  his  master  Piero,  attains  a  degree  of  perfection 
foreshadowing  Correggio,  and,  second,  for  what  these 
pictures  can  reveal  to  us  of  the  future.  From  the 
point  of  view  of  pure  art,  however,  we  still  prefer  the 
angel  musicians  sheltered  today  in  the  sacristy  of 
Saint  Peter's,  whose  grace,  whose  vitality,  and  the 
slightly  sensual  freshness  make  us  think  of  Allegri, 
although  we  find  in  them  some  indication  of  Signorelli, 
the  continuer  of  Angelico's  work  at  Orvieto. 

In  1481,  having  built  his  chapel,  Sixtus  IV.  called  to 
decorate  it  Perugino,  Botticelli,  Piero  di  Cosimo, 
Cosimo  Roselli,  Signorelli,  and  Ghirlandajo.  He  did 
things  well,  on  a  grand  scale.  If  no  other  work  of 
these  masters  existed  in  Italy,  the  frescoes  of  the  Sistine 
would  be  enough  to  place  them  in  the  first  rank.  We 
have  no  need  to  see  the  choir  of  Novella  and  the 
Academy  at  Florence,  the  Pinacoteca  at  Perugia  and 
the  chapel  at  Orvieto;  here  alone  we  have  reason 
enough  to  give  these  painters  our  most  enthusiastic 
admiration.  The  Golden  Calf  of  Cosimo  Rosselli  is  of 
magnificent,  sumptuous  richness.  I  do  not  find,  as 
do  certain  critics,  that  the  composition  is  overcharged 
and  heavy.  Do  they  not  see  that  Rosselli  made  it 


THE  KISS  OF  THE  BELVEDERE  65 

a  picture  of  the  most  brilliant  moment  of  the  majestic 
elegance  of  the  court  of  the  Medici?  The  proud 
young  woman,  advancing  lightly,  her  fine  raiment 
clinging  to  her  body  like  that  of  an  Apollo  musagetes, 
her  hand  in  that  of  her  radiant  lord,  is  detached  from 
a  group  that  we  cannot  place  anywhere  but  in  the 
gardens  of  Careggi.  And  was  this  only  to  have  the 
critics  reproach  him  by  comparison  with  Signorelli, 
his  companion  in  work?  Signorelli's  Promulgation 
of  the  Law  seems  to  me,  on  the  contrary,  less  worthy 
of  him,  in  spite  of  the  nude  man,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  things  that  ever  came  out  of  his  able  brush — 
the  strong  and  brilliant  brush  which  Michelangelo 
was  to  take  up  after  him.  We  have  not,  I  know,  any 
comparisons  to  set  up  in  respect  to  Rosselli's  work, 
since  this  is  his  greatest,  whereas  Monte  Oliveto  and 
Orvieto  enable  us  to  be  exacting  with  Signorelli.  This 
fresco  in  the  Vatican  makes  me  recall  his  Preaching  of 
the  Antichrist  at  Orvieto,  but  not  forget  it.  Nor  can 
I  in  the  presence  of  these  frescoes  forget  the  Botti- 
cellis  and  the  Ghirlandajos  of  Florence.  The  daughters 
of  Jethro,  noble  as  they  are,  are  not  the  rivals  of  the 
daughters  of  the  Primavera,  and  the  well-lined  order 
of  the  Vocation,  though  it  has  the  same  purity,  offers 
no  comparison  to  the  Cenacolo  of  San  Marco.  Peru- 
gino  was  industrious  here,  as  always,  but,  it  seems  to 
me,  with  a  brush  more  hurried  and  indifferent  than 
ever.  Yes,  truly,  these  are  great  and  beautiful  and 
magnificent  works,  such  as  Sixtus  IV.  was  justified  in 
expecting  of  those  painters,  such  as  our  own  devotion 
to  Florentine  art  might  demand  of  them.  Yet  is  it 
s 


66  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


Michelangelo's  ceiling  so  full  of  light,  that  casts  them 
in  shadow,  so  tumultuous,  that  they  are  congealed 
by  it?  Or  may  the  painters  be  accused  of  falling 
short?  I  do  not  know.  Perhaps  it  is  unjust  to  study 
them  in  comparison  either  with  one  another  or  with 
the  great  work  that  dominates  them.  Let  us  say, 
then,  once  more,  that  these  frescoes  alone  are  enough 
to  perpetuate  the  glory  of  Florence.  Let  us  also  say, 
as  we  did  of  Angelico,  that  Florence  will  never  miss 
them  since  at  best,  these  are  but  the  glories  of  Florence 
and  Orvieto  repeated. 

Perugino  brought  with  him  to  Rome  his  young 
pupil  Pinturicchio,  and  when  he  and  his  confreres 
left,  in  1483,  Pinturicchio  remained  to  paint  a  chapel 
of  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  in  Aracceli,  besides  the 
choir  and  some  of  the  chapels  of  Santa  Maria  del 
Popolo,  confided  to  him  by  several  princes  of  the 
church,  as  well  as  to  decorate  the  ceilings  of  the 
Belvedere,  entrusted  to  him  by  Innocent  VIII. 
Alexander  VI.  found  Pinturicchio  installed  in  the 
Vatican  and  commissioned  him  to  decorate  his  apart- 
ment. Before  coming  to  the  Vatican  this  morning, 
I  went  to  the  Aracoeli  and  the  Popolo;  yesterday 
I  saw  the  Belvedere.  It  would  not  be  fair  to  demand 
of  the  young  Pinturicchio  the  master  hand  we  saw 
him  wield  in  his  maturity  at  Spello  and  at  Sienna.  This 
Umbrian  had  the  wonderful  quality,  soon  lost  in  his 
sombre  school,  of  freshness,  of  a  certain  conviction, 
a  youthful  flame.  His  master  had  not  corrupted  it, 
for  the  lad  was  still  young  when  Perugino  left  him  to 
work  by  himself.  These  frescoes  in  Rome,  although 


THE  KISS  OF  THE  BELVEDERE  67 

they  have  not  all  the  brilliancy  of  the  later  ones, 
possess  what  we  do  not  find  in  the  others:  that  is 
naivety  and  faith,  less  marked  in  the  Vatican  than  in 
the  churches  and  palaces;  whereas  the  Vatican  fres- 
coes shine  resplendent  with  this  painter's  special 
glory,  decorative  magnificence.  Never  have  tapes- 
tries so  decorated  walls  as  do  Pinturicchio's  frescoes. 
The  distribution  of  light  is  masterly.  Do  not  think  of 
the  inhabitant  of  these  sad  rooms,  who  was  not  there 
to  laugh.  Think  only  of  the  work,  of  the  workman. 
Pinturicchio,  by  his  own  genius,  perfectly  understood 
that  a  dark  room  should  have  sombre  paintings  and 
that  a  well-lighted  hall  needs  luminous  paintings,  not 
for  the  lodger,  but  for  the  painting.  He  was  indiffer- 
ent to  making  light  for  those  who  occupied  the  rooms ; 
he  thought  only  of  giving  value  to  his  skill,  knowing 
well  enough  that  in  a  sombre  room  any  attempt  to 
enliven  it  must  always  be  but  the  vain  pursuit  of 
light  refusing  to  enter.  The  frescoes  of  Sienna,  spread 
out  in  broad  day,  vibrate  with  sunshine.  Those  of  the 
Vatican  are  stumped  in  with  half-tints,  in  spite  of  the 
reds  and  greens,  in  spite  of  the  gold  which  catches 
the  occasional  rays  and  diffuses  them  with  precaution. 
The  blond  hair  of  Lucretia  Borgia  in  the  guise  of  Saint 
Catherine,  the  turban  of  Djem,  the  jewels  of  Maxi- 
mianus  are  the  lightning  flashes  of  the  finished  artist, 
of  him  who  knows  the  science  of  painting.  On  the 
vaulted  ceiling  smile  Isis,  Crisis,  and  the  ingenious 
bull  Apis,  flattery  to  the  Borgias  whose  arms  bore  a 
bull.  At  Spello  and  at  Sienna,  Pinturicchio  was  able 
to  show  himself  a  greater  master  than  here,  but  he 


68  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

never  showed  himself  cleverer  than  in  his  youthful 
work  in  the  Borgia  apartments.  At  the  beginning 
of  his  career  he  was  already  a  master.  Of  all  those 
whose  work  we  have  just  seen,  he  was  really  the  only 
one  who  knew  how  to  fit  his  art  to  his  object  and  who 
was  equal  to  himself. 

One  may  compare  one  of  his  works  with  another 
and  find  none  of  them  diminishing  in  value.  Perhaps 
he  is  less  free  here  than  elsewhere.  In  the  name 
of  chronology,  we  cannot  reproach  him  with  that, 
although,  in  the  same  name,  by  the  restraint  that 
undoubtedly  he  shows,  we  may  range  him  beside 
his  predecessors  who  were  guided  more  than  he  was, 
yet  he  also  was  guided  as  truly  as  they  were.  From 
what,  then,  came  this  restraint? 

We  cannot  say,  without  some  hesitation  at  least, 
that  the  painters  of  the  Renaissance,  in  coming  to 
Rome,  were  dazzled  by  the  antique.  In  their  time 
excavations  were  carried  on  without  much  method, 
and  it  would  be  excessive  to  assign  the  mere  atmos- 
phere of  Rome  as  the  cause  of  their  embarrassment. 
There  is  a  more  direct  reason  for  this  evident  want  of 
ease.  It  is  the  antithesis  between  the  Vatican  and 
the  cities, — so  alive,  so  full  of  enthusiasm  and  of 
emulation, — in  which  they  had  lived.  It  was  not  the 
Roman  antiquities  that  overpowered  them,  but  Rome 
herself,  her  own  sterility,  the  pontifical  rigidity. 
They  were  still  painters,  but  that  was  all;  they  did 
not  feel  themselves  to  be  men,  and  the  time,  held 
back,  perhaps,  by  Perugino, — had  not  yet  come  when 
painter  and  man  were  two.  In  Rome,  Angelico  lost 


THE  KISS  OF  THE  BELVEDERE  69 

all  his  gaiety,  the  painters  of  the  Sistine  their  ease: 
even  Pinturicchio  is  cold.  Perhaps  the  Vatican  of 
God  frightened  them.  They  saw  nothing  about  them 
but  the  "terrible  right"  and  a  stern  pope  who  paid 
them.  Rome  was  a  work-room.  To  these  painters 
who  wanted  to  live,  nothing  was  offered  but  money, 
and  that  without  the  means  to  spend  it.  In  Rome,' 
far  from  their  own  towns,  so  gay  and  free  and  full  of 
enthusiasm,  in  this  palace  already  destined  for  show, 
mysterious,  and,  filled  with  the  terrors  of  the  Borgia, 
with  death  and  infamy,  they  were  bored  to  extinction,' 
they  who  were  so  care  free,  who  loved  so  lightly;  no 
wonder,  their  tasks  done,  that  they  fled  to  seek  else- 
where the  joy  of  a  painter  in  being  alive. 

It  was  necessary  that  two  brilliant  nobles,  a  Rovere 
and  a  Medici,  mount  the  throne  of  Saint  Peter  for 
strength  and  the  graces  to  enter  the  Vatican  and  make 
it  like  other  palaces  of  Italy.  Julius  II.  and  Leo  X. 
found  the  formidable  Michelangelo  and  the  perfect, 
the  divine,— of  a  Medicean  divinity,  not  Dominican,' 
like  that  of  Angelico—  Rafaello  Sanzio  of  Urbino. 

As  was  his  uncle  Sixtus  IV.,  Julius  II.  was  much 
occupied  with  business  affairs  at  the  beginning  of  his 
reign.  He  had  to  re-establish  all  the  nobles  suppressed 
by  Cassar  Borgia  and  to  give  back  principalities  and 
prebendaries  to  parasites  who  had  lost  them.  That 
was  called  then,  as  it  is  now,  re-establishing  order. 
Order  restored,  the  pupil  of  Sixtus,  the  cousin  of 
Pietro  Riario,  was  himself  again.  He  recalled  Michel- 
angelo, who  had  fled  Rome  some  months  before  in  rage 
over  Julius's  dissatisfaction  with  the  tomb  the  sculptor 


70  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

was  making,  and  who,  on  being  recalled,  threw  himself 
at  the  feet  of  the  pontiff  that  was  in  Bologna.  Michel- 
angelo then  returned  intending  to  take  up  the  chisel 
and  finish  the  pope's  tomb,  plans  for  which  he  had  left 
here.  His  fame  as  a  sculptor  was  already  established 
by  the  PietiL,  the  David,  and  the  statue  of  the  pope  de- 
stined for  San  Petronio  of  Bologna.  But,  instead,  he 
threw  down  the  chisel,  took  up  his  brush,  and  in  1508, 
attacked  the  vaulting  of  the  Sistine,  by  order  of  the 
pope,'  gossip  said,  no  doubt  with  truth,  but  in  no  such 
amplitude,  since  the  first  order  comprised  simply 
the  four  evangelists.  It  was  Michelangelo  who  asked 
permission  to  paint  the  twelve  apostles  and  then  the 
entire  ceiling.  That  man  of  flame  who  shouted  every 
day  that  he  was  but  a  sculptor,  suddenly  would  be- 
come painter  with  the  frenzy  that  he  did  everything, 
but  in  an  altogether  different  humour  from  the 
"marble-cutter"  who  had  left  Rome  because  he  felt 
that  the  pope  was  indifferent  to  his  plans  for  the 
tomb,  who  had  wished  to  sculpture  hills  and  was 
stamping  with  impatience  before  the  running  bronze 
at  Bologna.  What  had  wrought  the  change?  That 
which  had  happened  to  the  pope,  to  Bramante,  to 
all  the  Romans,  and  which  up  to  that  time  had  not 
been  sufficiently  noticed,  perhaps. 

When  Michelangelo  returned  to  Rome  neither  the 
city  nor  the  Vatican  looked  as  when  he  left  them. 
Julius  and  Bramante  had  been  at  work  in  his  absence. 
His  anxieties  over  the  temporal  power  somewhat 
relieved,  Julius  had  turned  again  with  fervent  zeal 
to  the  excavations  scarcely  begun  when  the  dis- 


Anderson 


The  Creation  of  Man,  by  Michael  Angelo,  Sistine  Chapel 


Anderson  Anderson 

Delphic  Sibyl,  by  Michael  Angelo,          Jeremiah,  by  Michael  Angelo,  Sistine 
Sistine  Chapel  Chapel 


THE  KISS  OF  THE  BELVEDERE  71 

agreement  over  the  tomb  arose.  He  had  discovered 
the  Laocoon  three  months  before  Michelangelo  went 
away.  From  that  time  on  the  Greek  and  Roman 
art  tormented  his  nights;  it  seemed  to  him  vain  to 
raise  a  monument  which  would  not  compare  with 
those  he  was  taking  out  of  the  Roman  ground  every 
day.  Julius  II.'s  change  of  ideas  upon  his  tomb  has 
always  been  a  much  discussed  question.  I  can  see  it 
only  in  the  light  of  his  discoveries  in  the  antique.  And 
if  Michelangelo,  on  his  return  to  Rome,  so  willingly 
made  the  renunciation  for  which  the  pope's  request 
had  so  offended  him,  staying  on  in  Rome  for  a  self- 
imposed  task  a  hundredfold  greater  than  that  which 
had  been  demanded  of  him,  it  was  because  he,  like 
Julius,  had  received  the  kiss  of  Pallas  Athene  upon  his 
forehead.  Bramante  had  dug  so  many  things  out  of 
Mediaeval  Rome  that  he  was  called  the  "ruinante." 
He  demolished  much,  it  is  true,  but  thanks  to  his 
feverish  zeal,  in  the  two  years  following  the  apparition 
of  the  Laocoon,  discovered  at  the  beginning  of  1506, 
a  world  of  wonders  filled  the  Vatican,  and  Michel- 
angelo, on  his  return  in  1508,  found  them  arranged  in 
long  rows  in  the  court  of  the  Belvedere. 

It  is  said  that  Ernest  Reyer  came  out  of  the  theatre 
at  Bayreuth  after  the  presentations  of  the  Tetrology, 
exclaiming,  "Quel  coup  de  tampon  ga  nous  envoie!" 
How  that  blows  out  the  bung !  Quite  as  colloquially, 
Michelangelo  must  have  expressed  himself  when  he  put 
his  nose  against  Julius's  windows  in  the  courtyard  of 
the  Belvedere.  He  was  seized  with  despair  and  fear. 
Marble  cutter !  What  was  the  use !  Burn  as  it  might 


72  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

the  flame  of  his  genius  would  never  be  so  pure,  never 
leap  so  high  as  that!  His  heart  was  broken.  We 
must  remember  that  at  that  time  he  had  produced 
nothing  greater  than  the  Field,  and  the  David,  magnifi- 
cent works,  but  whose  charm  gave  no  suggestion  of 
the  violence  and  terrible  majesty  of  the  Medici  Chapel 
and  the  Moses.  Now  he  understood  the  meaning  of 
that  word  sculpture  which  had  always  so  intoxicated 
him.  With  his  head  full  of  these  antiques,  how  could 
he  go  on  making  sweet  Fields  and  graceful  Davids 
out  of  marble?  Yet,  however  could  he  equal  these 
things  which  now  filled  his  being!  A  tragedy  raged 
in  that  hot,  restless,  clairvoyant  artist  soul.  There 
was  but  one  thing  for  him  to  do:  give  his  brain  the 
time  and  the  opportunity  to  assimilate  the  new  beauty. 
Once  calmly  in  possession  of  it,  he  could  interpret  it 
according  to  his  own  genius.  More,  to  pull  himself  at 
once  out  of  the  state  into  which  it  had  plunged  him, 
he  rushed  into  an  art  of  entirely  different  character 
in  which  he  could  express  himself  fully  and  diversely, 
in  which  he  could  work  off  all  his  childish  dreams  in 
realizing  daily  visions  which  calmed  his  upset  mind. 
With  a  savage  frenzy,  he  threw  himself  into  painting 
as  some  men  give  themselves  up  to  dissipation  to 
escape  a  memory. 

To  this  despair  mingled  with  forethought,  it  seems 
to  me,  we  owe  the  glory  of  the  Sistine.  The  sculptor 
turned  painter  for  a  moment  to  make  himself  forget 
sculpture,  his  own  which  he  considered  puerile,  and  the 
other  which  he  believed  unattainable.  Between  his 
brain  and  the  antique  he  wished  to  put  some  work 


THE  KISS  OF  THE  BELVEDERE  73 

into  which  he  could  pour  out  all  that  seething  over- 
inspiration  aroused  by  the  daily  vision  of  those 
antiques  in  the  Belvedere;  he  was  impelled  to  paint 
all  the  boldness,  all  the  madness  of  forms  that  he  had 
conceived  and  which  he  knew  he  could  only  realize 
in  his  own  way  according  to  his  nature.  When  that 
burden  had  been  thrown  off,  he  might  take  up  his 
chisel  with  freedom.  The  Medici  Chapel  at  Florence 
tells  us  how  well  he  reasoned  and  what  wise  deductions 
he  drew,  how  he  freed  himself  from  his  load  and  pro- 
fited by  his  experience. 

Seen  at  this  angle,  the  Sistine  lends  itself  to  an 
infinite  poem,  longer,  either  literally  or  subjectively 
considered,  than  any  composed  by  any  writer  of  the 
earth.  More  minute  authors  may  follow  the  trail  of 
the  antique  in  every  figure  of  these  frescoes.  What  I 
see  in  the  whole  is  the  madness  for  the  colossal  which 
suddenly  took  possession  of  the  sculptor  of  the  Pieta, 
the  feeling  of  enormous  force  which,  in  this  realist 
who  knew  the  work  of  Donatello,  awoke  the  courage 
to  break  with  the  serene  in  art,  which  he  had  culti- 
vated up  to  this  time,  to  give  himself  to  the  attack  of 
all  poses,  to  all  the  play  of  the  human  body  and  of 
light.  Clearly  he  wishes  to  make  sure  that  nothing 
is  impossible  to  one  who  will.  He  kept  on  going 
further  and  further,  at  first  hesitatingly  in  the  small 
scenes  of  Genesis,  broadening  and  growing  stronger 
gradually  until  he  produced  the  formidable  prophets, 
the  epic  Jonas,  veritable  monster,  which  proved  to 
Michelangelo  at  length  that  he,  too,  had  the  right 
to  dare  all. 


74  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

During  this  time  the  calm  Raphael,  his  equilibrium 
undisturbed,  was  painting  rooms,  designing  loggias 
and  tapestries,  and  directing  his  army  of  apprentices. 
He  drew  indefatigably  from  his  fountain  of  genius  and 
everything  he  did  was  essentially  well  ordered  without 
effort  to  make  it  so.  Did  he  also  receive  the  kiss  of  the 
Belvedere?  He  had  received  so  many!  He  had  the 
resume  of  all  art  in  his  heart,  prodigious  filter  into 
which  everything  went  and  from  which  all  came  out 
limpid.  You  have  only  to  see  the  angels  driving  out 
Heliodore  to  believe  that  he  had  seen  Apollo  musagetes 
flying  just  above  the  ground.  You  have  but  to  look 
at  the  School  of  Athens  to  be  convinced  that  he  had 
seen  the  busts  of  the  antique,  or  the  young  man 
writing  upon  his  knee  to  think  of  him  studying  the 
Thorn  Extractor,  or  the  woman  with  the  amphora  in 
his  Fire  in  the  Borgo  to  appreciate  that  he  knew  the 
Caryatides.  So  does  the  Dispute  tell  us  that  he  had 
seen  the  Spanish  Chapel,  Parnassus  that  he  knew 
Botticelli.  The  praying  woman  of  the  Fire  is  a  won- 
derful combination  of  Niobe  and  the  woman  on  her 
knees  in  Christ  on  the  Cross  by  Angelico  at  San  Marco. 
He  had  seen  Perugino,  Pinturicchio,  Signorelli,  and  Ros- 
selli.  He  assimilated  everything  and  his  happy  genius 
gave  out  all  that  he  received  impregnated  with  strength, 
with  grace,  with  majesty,  sweetness,  depth,  and  charm. 
There  was  no  uneasiness  in  that  gentle  mind.  The 
magnificently  rugged  landscape  of  Urbino  had  not 
agitated  his  childhood.  Nothing  could  torment  him. 
He  accepted  all  that  came  before  him,  translating  it  at 
once  according  to  the  play  of  his  unlimited  faculties. 


THE  KISS  OP  THE  BELVEDERE  75 

He  was  all  the  world  and  himself  at  the  same  time. 
Gobineau,  in  a  dialogue  which  will  float  above  the 
mediocre  level  of  his  work,  says:  "I  have  been  the 
ordonnateur, "  the  one  who  has  given  order  to  things. 
Therein  lay  the  miracle.  The  Renaissance  produced 
all  sorts,  awoke  the  most  diverse  temperaments  into 
bloom.  By  incredible  good  fortune,  it  gave  to  the 
world  him  who  had  the  power  to  combine  all  its  efforts, 
and  to  epitomize  them  with  lucidity.  The  supreme 
good  fortune  of  this  gift  was  that  Raphael  was  called 
to  Rome  where  the  antique  was  offered  to  his  artistic 
soul  that  it  might  lack  nothing  in  preparation  for  the 
supreme  expression  of  art  for  which  it  was  incarnate. 
Yes,  Raphael  received  the  kiss  of  the  Belvedere,  like 
Michelangelo,  but  it  went  to  his  heart  without  up- 
setting him.  In  the  great  fire  that  the  antique  lighted 
in  the  soul  of  these  artists  I  am  reminded  of  the 
Burning  of  the  Borgo.  Michelangelo  is  like  ^Eneas  who 
flees,  carrying  the  old  Anchises  on  his  shoulders,  to 
save  his  art  from  the  devouring  flame,  and  Raphael 
is  like  Leo  IV.  who  appears  in  the  loggia,  with  a  serene 
gesture  calming  the  terrors  of  all  and  putting  out  the 
flames  by  absorbing  them. 

Freed  of  the  phantoms  that  troubled  his  soul 
Michelangelo  took  up  his  chisel  again.  The  Last 
Judgment  shows  us  how  thoroughly  he  had  rid  himself 
of  his  nightmare.  Not  much  of  that  work  remains 
today,  so  many  times  has  it  been  repainted.  There 
is  enough  of  it,  however,  to  make  us  respect  Michel- 
angelo if  we  had  no  other  expression  of  his  genius, 
enough  also,  to  show  us  that  he  was  a  painter  not  be- 


76  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

cause  he  felt  the  need  of  fixing  forms  in  space  and 
light,  but  to  deliver  himself  of  what  clamoured  within 
him  for  expression.  In  doing  that  Raphael,  too,  died 
happy. 

After  him  night  fell  upon  the  Vatican.  Giovanni 
da  Udine,  Giulio  Romano,  Vignola,  Maderno,  took 
up  the  boasting-tool  and  the  palette.  They  did  not 
succeed  in  bringing  back  the  day.  Lacking  genius  of 
their  own,  they  took  refuge  under  the  two  great  names 
rendered  doubly  dear  to  them  by  fear  of  deceiving 
themselves.  More  and  more  of  these  wonderful  an- 
tiques they  saw  accumulating  about  them;  they  saw 
what  personality  or  what  serenity  one  must  have  not 
to  be  overcome  by  them,  and  they  did  not  dare.  Like 
Goethe,  like  all  of  us,  they  went  back  to  school,  but 
without  learning  much,  alas!  They  could  not.  The 
spring  was  too  deep  for  them  to  dare  to  drink  from 
it.  They  could  do  nothing  but  follow  in  the  footsteps 
of  their  two  more  fortunate  and  more  courageous 
masters,  like  some  historians  who  avoid  the  archives 
and  borrow  their  documents  from  the  works  of  their 
predecessors.  Those  masters  were  so  great!  They 
gave  so  much  life  to  the  dust  that  they  raised,  their 
light  was  so  luminous!  The  pupils  of  Michelangelo 
and  Raphael  copied  their  masters  and,  gradually, 
no  genius  sustaining  them  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on 
the  other,  unable  to  survive,  as  did  Michelangelo, 
the  overwhelmed  sense  of  their  incapacity  to  do 
anything  comparable  to  the  antique,  they  gave  them- 
selves up  to  the  facile,  brilliant,  and  empty  art  in 
which  Rome  delighted  for  the  next  two  centuries. 


THE  KISS  OF  THE  BELVEDERE  77 

For  them,  for  us,  for  all,  Rome  has  but  one  art:  the 
antique.  Everything  fades  before  that;  one  might 
even  say  that  the  artists  of  the  Renaissance  who  did 
not  see  it,  or  saw  little  of  it,  divined  its  existence. 
Rome,  no  doubt,  was  opposed  to  the  joyous  art  of  the 
Florentines,  to  whom  she  was  a  stranger;  but  in  their 
name  Raphael  sustained  it.  And  after  those  two,  art, 
having  nothing  more  to  say,  gradually  disappeared, 
from  time  to  time  flashing  such  a  blaze  of  lightning 
as  a  Titian,  but  going  deeper  into  the  night,  devoured 
by  the  revelation  of  the  antique  as  were  the  Romans, 
as  were  the  popes,  as  are  we  today. 


Seventh   Day 

TURINUS  AND  NIOBE 

The  PantHeon,  tKe  Imperial  Forums 

HEN  Italy  carried  the  ashes  of  Victor 
Emmanuel,  liberator  of  the  country,  to 
the  Pantheon,  she  thought  only  of  link- 
ing the  present  with  the  past,  to  estab- 
lish the  memory  of  the  king  who  had 
unified  the  States  beside  that  of  Augustus,  to  identify 
the  new  Italy  with  the  old  of  which  the  Pantheon  was 
the  one  monument  the  nearest  to  being  intact.  Many 
Romans,  however — for  the  Roman  is  caustic — must 
have  smiled,  remembering  that  the  two  principal 
divinities  honoured  in  the  Pantheon  by  Agrippa  were 

78 


TURINUS  AND  NIOBE  79 

Mars  and  Venus.     The  conquering  and  gallant  king 
was  indeed  in  great  company. 

I  have  never  asked  those  who  every  morning  press 
about  the  tomb  of  the  son  of  Savoy,  signing  their 
names  in  the  register,  to  which  front  of  the  modern 
Janus  their  mortuary  wreaths  were  destined.  Nor 
have  I  asked  them  what  part  they  have  favoured  in 
the  reconstruction  of  the  temple.  Every  scholar  in 
Roman  archaeology  has  his  assumption  and  wants 
you  to  recognize  no  other;  you  may  not  choose  the 
hypothesis  you  fancy  from  among  the  many  given 
out  by  the  learned  fraternity,  you  must  have  blind 
faith  in  his  only.  He  who  has  found  a  brick  or  dis- 
covered an  inscription  casts  a  pitying  eye  on  the 
simple  tourists  whose  poetic  turn  of  mind  does  not 
take  seriously  to  the  discovery,  but  spreads  his  indis- 
criminating  affections  over  all  bricks,  even  when  they 
are  contradictory.  The  sole  and  only  brick  at  the 
time  of  my  visit  to  Rome  was  that  of  a  French  archi- 
tect, M.  Chedanne,  on  which  the  name  of  the  Emperor 
Hadrian  was  written.  The  dedication  on  the  frieze, 
however,  and  documents,  leave  no  room  for  doubt 
that  Agrippa,  the  son-in-law  of  Augustus,  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  before  Hadrian's  time,  built  here  his 
thermae  and  a  temple  "to  all  the  gods"  on  the  site 
of  the  marsh  in  which  Romulus  sunk  and  met  his 
death.  But  was  the  "temple"  a  temple?  The  Ger- 
mans contend  that  pantheum  means,  not  "all  the 
gods,"  but  "very  holy."  Nor  is  that  the  worst  of  it. 
"To  all  the  gods"  or  "very  holy"  are  ample  enough 
to  be  appropriated  by  all  contestants.  The  problems 


8o  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

lie  in  the  age  of  the  different  parts  of  the  temple,  in 
the  primitive  forms  and  the  reconstructions.  Today, 
according  to  M.  Chedanne's  brick,  it  is  believed  that 
the  temple  entered  by  the  present  portico  was  built 
in  rectangular  form,  that  it  was  burnt,  and  that 
Hadrian,  who  was  always  careful  to  provide  his  bricks 
with  inscriptions,  rebuilt  it  round. 

This  is  what  has  been  laid  down.  But  why  did 
Agrippa  prefer  the  rectangular  form?  Agrippa  ap- 
parently, was  a  great  respecter  of  rules.  The  rule 
is  that  temples  be  rectangular.  It  is  of  no  import- 
ance that  the  Temple  of  Vesta  was  round  as  a  lantern, 
nor  how  round  were  the  Temples  of  Hercules  the 
Conqueror,  that  of  the  Sibyl  of  Tivoli,  of  Romulus,  of 
San  Teodoro,  or  of  Stefano  Rotundo.  In  the  same 
way  the  rule  is  opposed  to  the  building  of  a  solid  wall 
upon  columns,  and  that  is  why  the  Palace  of  the  Doges 
at  Venice  is  regarded  askance  by  the  rule-keepers. 
Do  not  bring  up  the  basilicas  to  them.  Rules,  so 
precious  to  facilitate  study,  disdain  such  an  embar- 
rassment. A  temple  cannot  be  round!  Besides,  it 
is  not  certain  that  the  round  hall  of  the  Pantheon 
was  a  temple.  .  .  . 

Indeed,  certain  wise  and  prudent  scholars  have 
made  it  a  hall,  the  caldarium  of  Agrippa's  thermae, 
found  close  to  the  temple.  Objections  are  raised 
against  them,  brick  in  hand,  which  can  only  be  refuted 
by  another  brick.  Certain  scholars  of  conciliatory 
disposition,  give  out  the  hypothesis  that  Agrippa,  in 
the  course  of  the  construction  of  his  baths,  changed 
the  destination  of  his  caldarium,  making  it  into  a 


TURIN  US  AND  NIOBE  81 

temple.  Still  others  attribute  the  portal  only  to 
Agrippa,  giving  as  their  reasons  that  between  the 
grand  portal  and  the  temple  is  a  second  portal  or 
vestibule  with  independent  fronton;  clearly,  Agrippa 
did  not  place  one  pediment  before  another.  In  that 
case  the  rotunda  belonged  to  the  baths.  The  only 
concession  that  the  modern  school  makes,  that  of 
the  hour  in  which  I  write,  and  for  the  repetition  of 
which  I  shall  have  to  blush,  perhaps,  later,  is  that  the 
baths  were  built  long  before  the  temple.  So  one  falls 
back  upon  the  hypothesis  of  the  baths  despoiled  for 
the  temple,  and  M.  Chedanne's  brick  becomes  but  a 
claim.  May  it  not  be  an  authentication?  Does  the 
brick  say  that  the  temple  was  square?  No.  Hadrian 
simply  made  note  that  he  had  rebuilt  the  work  of 
Agrippa,  nothing  more. 

The  tourist,  who  does  not  understand  the  true 
inwardness  of  archaeology,  may  feel  obliged  to  arrange 
everything  in  his  own  mind  on  the  spot  and  hastily 
fits  all  the  conjectures  together  to  suit  himself. 
Agrippa  built  the  thermae,  public  establishments  for 
which  Rome  had  lately  awakened  a  taste.  He 
ornamented  them  with  statues  of  the  gods,  in  order, 
perhaps,  to  somewhat  justify  the  luxury  in  the  eyes 
of  the  Roman  traditionalists.  In  the  humour  for 
creating  establishments,  a  few  years  later  he  added 
to  one  of  the  halls  of  his  baths, — either  from  the 
necessity  to  make  more  room  or  simply  to  indulge  his 
artistic  taste  and  mania  for  building  and  reconstruc-> 
tion, — a  monumental  portico  which  he  dedicated 
particularly  to  the  gods,  perhaps  that  this  additional 

6 


82  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


show  might  have  a  pious  excuse  to  the  people  who  were 
still  modest  in  their  manners.  In  the  portico,  as  in  the 
bath,  the  gods  were,  if  not  the  pretext,  at  least  the  justi- 
fication of  the  luxury.  The  Roman  people  accepted 
the  sop  to  Severus  so  much  the  more  readily  since  they 
did  not  worship  their  gods,  as  Christians  do  their  saints, 
upon  altars  in  buildings  exclusively  dedicated  to  them. 
They  used  to  put  their  statues  everywhere,  as  we  do 
those  of  our  heroes,  in  the  most  everyday  and  worldly 
places.  All  the  Roman  temples  were  built  for  some 
particular  motive  of  gratitude  or  imploration,  and 
beyond  such  special  objects,  statues  of  the  gods 
ornamented  the  least  religious  places.  There  was 
nothing  in  the  Roman  customs  opposed  to  putting 
the  hall  of  such  an  audacious  novelty  as  a  luxu- 
rious bathing  establishment  under  the  protection 
of  the  gods,  ornamenting  it  with  their  statues  and 
giving  it  a  glorious  portico  of  such  a  character  that 
the  ruin  of  the  entire  building  has  but  accentuated 
and,  perhaps,  falsified  it  for  us.  Moreover,  can  we 
forget  that  in  Rome  any  place  consecrated  by  augural 
ceremonies  was  called  a  temple?  The  Curia,  the 
rostrums, — they  were  elliptical,  by  the  way, — the 
vault  of  heaven  itself,  upon  which  lines  of  limitation 
were  traced  with  such  firm  conviction, — all  were 
temples.  The  thermae-temples  or  temple-thermae  re- 
conciled the  old  established  customs,  the  traditions 
with  the  new  spirit.  Then  the  fire  came.  Hadrian 
who  saw  about  him  the  thermae  of  Titus,  of  Domitian, 
of  Trajan  so  much  more  comfortable  and  luxurious 
than  the  old  thermae  of  Agrippa,  built  a  hundred  and 


TURINUS  AND  NIOBE  83 

fifty  years  before,  profited  by  the  occasion.  Of  the 
burnt  establishment  he  restored  only  the  round  hall, 
the  caldarium,  and  the  portico,  making  them  into  a 
temple,  pure  and  simple,  a  place  of  worship  which 
he  signed  with  his  brick. 

But  what  is  the  use  of  losing  ourselves  in  reveries? 
They  serve  only  to  make  one  set  little  value  on  the 
opinions  of  scholars — who  often  vary  but  never  are 
deceived.  They  have  their  bricks,  but  the  passing 
tourist  cannot  produce  one. 

Let  us  turn  to  the  Forums  of  the  Emperors  and 
face  another  problem.  Had  they,  in  the  Middle 
Ages  become  the  veritable  marshes  we  now  see  dried? 
The  scholars  splash  about  in  them  yet.  Popular 
simplicity,  desperate  to  give  a  name  to  one  of  them, 
has  called  it  the  Colonnacce,  because  of  two  great 
columns.  Had  Napoleon  dug  them  up  as  he  wanted 
to,  would  he  have  found  the  reason  of  their  existence  ? 
Half  buried  as  they  are,  we  can  almost  lay  our  hands 
upon  the  cornice,  the  entablature, — that  infinitely 
graceful  little  Minerva, — the  frieze  in  which  we  still 
distinguish  the  works  of  peace,  as  at  Pistoia  we  still 
make  out  the  works  of  mercy  on  the  fagade  of  the 
Ceppo.  Who  raised  this  strong  and  graceful  monu- 
ment? Was  it  Domitianus?  Was  it  Nerva?  What 
name  had  it  when  it  was  in  use?  For  a  long  time  it 
was  called  the  Forum  Palladium,  a  prudent  and 
undeniable  name  since  Minerva  presided  over  it. 
Then  it  was  known  as  the  Forum  Transitorium,  a 
designation  often  made  use  of  in  the  time  of  the 
emperors  in  the  case  of  a  forum  crossed  by  a  street,  as 


84  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

the  Via  Sacra  crosses  the   Forum.     Today,  by  com- 
mon consent,  it  is  called  the  Forum  of  Nerva. 

That  has  been  established,  however,  at  the  expense 
of  another  imperial  forum  beside  it,  a  ruin  which 
passed  for  a  long  time  as  the  site  of  the  Forum  of 
Nerva,  but  which  is  now  rebaptized,  and  unques- 
tioned as  the  Forum  of  Augustus,  and  in  order  to 
prove  that  its  name  should  not  be  changed  again,  its 
columns  have  become  the  Temple  of  Mars  Ultor,  both 
Pallas  and  Nerva  receiving  asylum  in  the  Colonnacce, 
which  was  built,  it  appears,  by  Nerva  in  honour  of 
Minerva.  Lately  another  scruple  has  arisen,  but  so 
far  circumvented  that  it  is  permitted,  without  covering 
oneself  with  ridicule,  to  call  the  Forum  of  Nerva  "  tran- 
sitorium"  and  still  not  thereby  withdraw  that  name 
from  the  Forum  of  Augustus.  The  one,  as  the  other, 
is  suffered  to  be  transitory.  We  need  not  doubt  that 
their  designations  are  also. 

Today  the  Forum  of  Augustus  has  in  sight  three 
superbly  majestic  columns  which  seem  to  ask  the 
protection  of  the  old  wall  under  which  they  are  shel- 
tered, looking  sadly  at  the  apse  in  front  of  them,  robbed 
of  its  marbles,  of  all  the  decorations  that  they  still 
possess.  How  I  love  that  popular  fable  which,  in  this 
place,  before  these  columns,  locates  the  punishment 
of  Turinus,  the  favourite  of  Septimius  Severus,  con- 
demned to  be  smothered  by  the  smoke  of  a  fire  made 
of  straw  for  having  sold  the  favours  he  had  obtained 
from  his  friend :  ' '  Let  the  seller  of  smoke  be  punished 
by  smoke!"  cried  Septimius  Severus.  Men  have 
softened  their  punishments  by  this  age  of  ours;  they 


Anderson 


nlo  /->f  TWaro  TTItnr 


The  Pantheon 


Anderson 


Trajan's  Column 


TURINUS  AND  NIOBE  85 

have  not  modified  human  nature;   the  same  smoke 
merchants  reappear  in  the  course  of  the  centuries. 

Here  we  are  at  the  Forum  of  Trajan  upon  which, 
at  least,  harmony  of  opinion  seems  possible.  Do  not 
attribute  this  concord  to  the  amenities  of  the  learned 
scholars.  It  is  because  the  ancient  descriptions,  the 
excavations,  the  Column  of  Trajan,  and  the  important 
remains  that  Napoleon  brought  to  light  leave  no  room 
for  difference  of  opinion.  At  the  bottom  of  a  ditch, 
fifty  shafts  broken  off  at  one  or  two  yards  from  the 
ground  are  grouped  around  the  main  column.  What 
poet  can  describe  their  beauty?  I  wish  some  Byron 
might  rise  and  typify  them  in  his  Niobe. 

"The  Niobe  of  nations!  there  she  stands. 
Childless  and  crownlcss,  in  her  voiceless  woe; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  withered  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago." 

The  children  have  been  cut  down  and  Niobe  holds 
toward  heaven  the  urn  from  which  the  ashes  of  Trajan 
have  been  scattered.  She,  alone,  the  beautiful  Trajan 
Niobe,  is  intact,  enrolling  around  her  shaft  the  good 
and  lofty  deeds  of  the  gentle  emperor. 

Turinus  and  Niobe  will  never  deceive  anyone. 
"Historical  truth  has  no  other  foundation  than  some 
phrases,  obscure  to  us,  escaped  from  divers  authors. 
.  .  .  Perhaps  one  day  some  German  and  conscientious 
savant  will  come  and  change  all  that  has  so  long  been 
repeated  over  the  ruins  of  Rome.  .  .  .  ' 

Stendhal  was  a  seer.  The  German  and  conscientious 
savant  who  has  changed  all  that  has  been  repeated 


86  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

over  the  ruins  of  Rome  has  come,  several  of  him  in 
fact.  Still  others  will  come  and  deny  all  that  we  are 
so  sure  of  today  with  no  less  authority  and  likelihood. 
Certainty  is,  as  Stendhal  says,  "that  which  one  likes 
to  believe."  Let  us  welcome  easily  all  assumptions. 
We  have  the  right  to  choose  that  which  we  prefer. 
Except  in  very  few  cases,  scientific  certitude  passes 
with  years,  and  at  the  end  of  the  reckoning,  it  is 
poetry  that  triumphs.  Let  fancy  play  around  Trajan, 
around  Augustus,  around  Nerva,  around  those  eleven 
columns  of  the  Temple  of  Neptune,  with  wounds  in 
them,  as  if  they  had  been  stabbed,  assassinated  as  truly 
as  was  Csesar.  The  latest  bequests  to  archaeology  place 
the  fagade  of  this  temple  upon  the  Corso  and  allow  this 
tortured  debris  to  have  been  but  a  side  of  the  building. 
What  does  it  matter?  Whatever  part  it  was,  this  por- 
tico left  to  us  is  one  of  the  most  moving  bits  of  ancient 
Rome,  rivalling  in  grandeur  the  three  columns  of  the 
Mars  Ultor,  in  eloquence  the  Temple  of  Saturn,  ceding 
only  to  the  portico  of  the  Pantheon. 

How  often  I  come  back  to  the  Pantheon  once  more, 
leaving  archaeologists  to  count  the  stones  of  the  fronton ! 
The  colonnade  crowds  upon  the  upper  level.  Heaped 
upon  one  another,  the  shafts  of  marble  rise,  bold  and 
massive,  high  and  strong,  seamed  with  a  thousand 
scars.  Their  line,  low  and  light  at  the  same  time,  is 
all  tortured.  The  capitals,  still  more  wounded,  are 
lost  in  the  forest  of  timber.  The  spectacle  is  magnifi- 
cent. It  seems  that  formerly  these  timbers  were  of 
bronze.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  bronze  had  more 
majesty  than  the  beams  of  today  or  not.  Coated 


TURINUS  AND  NIOBE  87 

with  four  hundred  years  of  dust,  they  have  taken  on 
the  bluish  tint  of  the  columns,  of  the  marble.  Stripped 
of  their  bark,  splinters  torn  off,  they  seem  to  be  pillars 
lying  upon  the  columns  and  carried  by  them.  As 
numerous  and  as  close  together  as  the  columns,  they 
look  as  if  they  were  heaped  up  like  a  pile  of  spillikins 
or  jack-straws.  The  spectacle  of  those  colossal  beams, 
straddling,  cross-cutting,  surmounting  one  another 
has  something  intense,  dramatic  about  it.  They  seem 
to  have  just  met  for  a  wrestle  and  that  the  eye  has 
come  upon  them  before  their  struggle  could  be  heard. 
They  lean  and  push  against  one  another,  as  if  with 
tense  muscles.  It  seems  as  if  they  will  crash  at  any 
minute  and  that  the  noise  will  be  frightful  to  hear. 
Yet  how  passively  the  solemn  columns  carry  this 
conflict,  offering  their  round  surfaces  to  the  stroller 
who  loves  to  platonize  under  the  porticoes,  inviting 
him  to  take  no  interest  in  the  battle  going  on  above 
his  head!  The  door  of  the  temple  is  open  and  the 
beautiful,  pure  vaulting  rounds  its  ceiling,  offering 
its  titulary  shelter.  An  even  light,  leaving  nothing 
in  shadow,  falls  from  the  circular  hole  of  bronze, 
a  light  that  is  infinitely  sweet  and  peaceful,  while 
through  the  hole  one  sees  the  vibrating  disc  of  blue 
heaven.  Calm  as  this  light  is,  I  prefer  the  shadows  of 
the  portico.  Light  loves  to  play  rather  than  to  run; 
it  must  have  obstacles  and  traps  where  it  can  show 
its  delicacy  and  use  its  artifices.  Under  these  beams, 
amid  their  confusion,  while  it  bathes  them,  it  plays 
upon  them  with  adorable  subtleties,  touches  inde- 
scribably delicate,  caresses  ineffable. 


A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


How  praiseworthy  the  enterprise  of  the  archae- 
ologist who  tries  to  reduce  probabilities  to  precise 
terms!  Laudable,  also,  is  the  design  of  the  poet 
whose  imagination  often  so  easily  succeeds  in  bringing 
back  to  life  the  beings  of  whom  he  sings.  He  has 
certainty  because  he  creates.  He  has  the  secret  of 
existence  because  he  does  not  give  to  his  creatures  even 
the  time  to  begin  to  die :  he  sacrifices  them  as  soon  as 
he  has  awakened  them.  Everyone  can  enjoy  their 
light,  they  are  peace  and  concord.  Apologue  is  the 
son  of  poetry.  I  dedicate  this  one  to  the  brick  hunters. 

Goethe,  while  in  Rome,  had  the  imprudence  one  day 
to  open  conversation  with  an  Italian  scholar  on  the 
subject  of  Dante.  The  scholar  shut  him  up  at  once 
by  declaring  that  a  foreigner  was  incapable  of  under- 
standing a  poet  whom  the  Italians  themselves  could 
not  always  understand.  Goethe,  by  way  of  recovering 
himself,  answered,  "You  are  right.  I  find  I' Inferno 
horrible,  //  Purgatorio  obscure,  and  //  Paraaiso  tire- 
some." The  scholar  threw  himself  into  the  arms  of 
the  blaspheming  foreigner,  delighted  to  find  his  theory 
so  fully  confirmed.  From  that  time  on,  Goethe  had 
no  better  friend  than  the  irascible  philogue,  trans- 
formed, by  this  speedy  recognition  of  his  privilege, 
into  the  gentlest  of  men. 


EigHtH  Day 

THE  CROWNED  EPHEBE 

Museum  of  tHe  TKermae 

PPOSITE  the  station  is  a  great  square, 
planted  with  young  trees  which  almost 
hide  a  reddish  mass  overgrown  with 
ivy,  where  one  roundness  swells  out  its 
bricks  and  another  hollows  them  in, 
where  torn  fragments  hang  down  and  pillars  beg  for 
entablature,  while  on  the  side  of  the  Via  Nazionale, 
behind  the  fountain  with  the  lascivious  nymphs  a 
church  door  is  set.  All  the  rest,  except  an  inset  where 
a  door  is  surmounted  by  a  shield  and  a  flag,  is  ruin 
closely  hung  with  verdure.  This  ruined  mass  was 
once  the  Thermae  of  Diocletian,  whose  transformation 
into  church  and  convent  saved  them  from  complete  de- 
struction. The  church  is  encased  in  the  tepidarium, 

89 


go  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

and  in  the  cells  of  that  ancient  Certosa  modern  Rome 
has  established  the  National  Roman  Museum,  with 
fewer  marbles  than  the  Vatican,  but  quite  as  many 
masterpieces. 

What  must  have  been  the  state  of  mind  of  those 
who  appropriated  the  ruins  of  antiquity  to  the  needs 
of  their  own  time?  When  Michelangelo,  toward  the 
end  of  his  days,  was  obliged  to  cut  Santa  Maria  degli 
Angeli  out  of  the  Thermae  of  Diocletian  and  redress 
the  old  pagan  carcass  with  Christian  marbles,  did  he 
deplore  his  act,  which  we  today  call  sacrilege?  Let 
us  not  lend  our  own  sentiments  to  our  fathers.  Re- 
spect for  ruins  is  an  entirely  modern  conception. 
Our  Gothic  monuments  exist  solely  because  the  religi- 
ous orders  finding  them  useful  have  preserved  them. 
It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  Church  has  not  oftener 
adapted  the  house  of  Jupiter  to  her  convenience,  as 
she  did  here  and  at  the  Pantheon.  When  the  popes 
excavated  the  soil  of  Rome,  it  was  solely  to  find 
statues  to  adorn  their  palaces,  not  to  honour  the  past. 
The  statues  taken  out,  the  excavators  filled  in  the 
holes  and  levelled  off  the  ground.  Those  who  brought 
the  Laocoon  to  light  did  not  hesitate  to  throw  down  the 
columns  of  the  Thermae  of  Titus  where  they  had  dis- 
covered it.  After  a  visit  to  five  or  six  churches,  one 
is  convinced  that  nine-tenths  of  the  columns  used  in 
them  came  from  pagan  temples.  In  the  sixteenth 
century,  even  in  the  seventeenth,  no  one  would  have 
appreciated  the  good  sense  of  that  excellent  precept 
of  Didron:  "In  respect  to  ancient  monuments,  it  is 
better  to  consolidate  than  to  repair;  better  to  repair 


THE  CROWNED  EPHEBE  91 

than  to  restore ;  better  to  restore  than  to  reconstruct ; 
in  any  case  nothing  should  be  added  nor  cut  away." 
The  eighteenth  century  scarcely  began  to  comprehend 
the  meaning  of  this  counsel,  and  the  nineteenth  alone 
has  formulated  it,  without,  alas,  attempting  to  con- 
form to  it  strictly.  Today  we  find  precious  remains 
standing,  not  because  they  have  been  respected,  but 
because  the  material  of  which  they  are  made  was 
despised,  because  neither  they  nor  the  place  where 
they  stand  could  be  utilized.  If  the  early  Romans, 
instead  of  building  with  brick,  had  used  stone,  as  did 
the  French,  we  now  should  see  no  trace  of  their  archi- 
tecture, except  such,  like  the  Baths  of  Diocletian,  as 
could  be  adapted  to  the  customs  of  their  Christian 
successors.  From  their  hands,  not  even  works  of  art 
escaped.  Michelangelo  finished  the  River  God  in 
the  Sala  Croce  Greca  of  the  Vatican  Museum;  the 
Dying  Gladiator  and  a  great  many  others  were  polished 
off  in  his  atelier.  He  had  no  compunction  against 
reconstructing  or  repairing.  Is  not  what  he  did  the 
same  thing  that  we  do  when  we  utilize  old  chasubles 
for  our  chimney-pieces  and  albs  for  ball  gowns  ?  For- 
tunate the  silk  and  lace  that  falls  into  the  hands  of 
people  of  taste  and  the  monument  that  suffered  no- 
thing worse  than  the  chisel  and  trowel  of  Michelangelo ! 
He  who  saved  Bramante's  dome  in  carrying  out  the 
building  of  Saint  Peter's  recognized  beauty  and  took 
care  not  to  ruin  what  was  turned  over  to  him.  To 
work  in  the  colossal  was  his  particular  calling,  and 
his  great  genius  was  alive  to  the  majesty  of  the  debris 
confined  to  his  care.  He  reconstructed,  striding  over 


92  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

restoration  almost  until  he  made  it  reach  consolida- 
tion. Here,  for  instance,  he  placed  his  church  in  the 
longitudinal  direction  of  the  tepidarium,  respecting 
the  little  rotunda,  lame  as  it  was,  which  united  the 
tepidarium  to  the  caldarium,  upon  the  site  of  which, 
later,  the  porch  was  built.  He  kept  the  granite 
columns  which  still  sustain  the  vaulting,  contenting 
himself  to  add  some  new  ones,  refraining  from  white- 
washing them,  as  Vanvitelli  did  not. 

When  standing  at  one  end  of  the  present  transcept, 
that  is  to  say,  looking  in  the  direction  given  to  the 
primitive  church,  one  sees  clearly  what  were  the 
Thermae  in  which,  Stendhal  said,  three  thousand,  two 
hundred  persons — he  must  have  counted  them! — 
could  bathe  at  the  same  time.  Let  us  imagine  our- 
selves among  those  three  thousand,  two  hundred 
bathers.  Then,  as  now,  we  should  have  seen  statues, 
coffer-ceilings,  marble  pavements,  and  highly  polished 
columns.  The  luxury  was  great.  That  of  the  church, 
too,  is  abundant,  though  less  restrained.  The  inte- 
rior is  superb  in  its  noble  and  unrestricted  amplitude. 
It  seems  to  widen  and  lift  itself  for  its  function  out 
of  the  simple  part  of  the  edifice  that  it  was.  Other 
great  halls  lie  about  it,  where  the  monks  used  to 
."ive,  where  tramways  pass  now,  where  fountains 
play,  where  the  sick  groan  and  clerks  make  their 
calculations. 

Later,  at  the  Thermae  of  Caracalla,  on  the  Palatine, 
at  Hadrian's  Villa,  I  shall  have  occasion  to  study 
the  architectural  genius  of  the  Romans.  Today  we 
shall  simply  take  note  of  its  existence  and  its  progress. 


THE  CROWNED  EPHEBE  93 

Three  hundred  years  separated  Agrippa  from  Diocle- 
tian. We  see  how  much  a  people  can  gain  or  lose  in 
three  centuries.  A  taste  for  the  massive  and  the 
colossal  devours  those  who  used  to  piously  keep  up 
the  hut  of  boughs  on  the  Capitol  where,  it  was  said, 
Romulus  had  lived.  Where  did  they  get  that  taste? 
From  Asia,  from  Egypt,  from  the  fascinating  Orient, 
no  doubt.  We  French,  too,  have  inherited  it.  In 
thousands  of  years  to  come,  when  people  discover  the 
foundations  of  some  of  our  cathedrals  or  of  the  Opera 
in  Paris,  they  will  wonder  what  spirit  possessed  us  to 
make  such  monsters.  Will  those  foundations  give 
our  posterity  the  same  idea  of  us  that  we  have  of  the 
Romans?  We  must  not  attribute  our  ideas  to  our 
descendants  more  than  to  our  ancestors.  All  that  a 
man  of  today  may  say  is  that  our  showy  buildings  are 
out  of  proportion,  bloated.  The  only  ones  that  really 
do  us  credit  are  the  houses  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
among  which  are  the  masterpieces  of  Gabriel.  In 
Rome,  on  the  contrary,  nothing  clashes.  When  we 
have  visited  the  palaces  of  the  Romans,  we  find  that 
they  were  greater  people  than  we  believed  them  to  be. 
In  the  distant  future  will  the  ruins  of  the  Grand  Palais 
des  Champs-Elysees  make  the  French  people  the 
better  esteemed  by  those  who  know  the  history,  the 
literature,  and  the  sculpture  of  France?  Time  will 
judge  us  as  it  judges  the  popes  and  their  mania  for 
reconstruction.  Let  us  hope  that  it  will  not  be  more 
severe  than  we  must  be  with  Michelangelo  who  had 
to  employ  such  skill  as  he  was  master  of  to  make  a 
church  and  convent  out  of  ancient  baths. 


94  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

It  is  in  the  convent  that  the  National  Roman 
Museum  has  been  arranged.  It  is  rich  and  charming. 
The  little  houses  of  the  Certosa  open  their  modest 
doors  under  the  cloister.  Up  a  few  steps,  you  find 
yourself  in  two  or  three  rooms  that  give  upon  a  gar- 
den, a  garden  to  each  small  apartment.  Along  the 
walls,  or  in  the  middle  of  the  rooms,  are  altars,  bas- 
reliefs,  steles,  heads,  and  divers  fragments.  Here, 
among  other  things,  is,  perhaps,  the  purest  thing  in 
bas-relief  that  Greek  art  has  produced:  three  women 
with  arms  entwined  advancing  in  a  light  wind  which 
shows  their  chaste  and,  at  the  same  time,  voluptuous 
forms.  Here  is  an  altar  where  the  gods  amuse  them- 
selves, there  the  bust  of  a  woman,  a  torso,  mutilated 
heads,  in  fact  all  that  the  Roman  soil  has  given  up 
in  fragments  of  the  finest  and  most  graceful  expres- 
sions of  absolute  beauty.  In  the  delicate  half-light 
of  the  little  houses  all  this  is  stamped  out  in  delightful 
relief.  Think  of  yourself  settled  here  in  this  fresh 
•place,  living  long  days  among  these  souvenirs  and 
memories,  examining  everything  in  detail,  stone  by 
stone. 

So  much  for  those  who  love  things  fine  and  delicate, 
and  here's  too,  for  those  who  care  for  grandeur.  In 
another  part  of  the  convent  is  lodged  the  famous 
Ludovisi  or  Boncompagni  collection,  whose  possible 
dispersion  did  not  arouse  the  anger  of  all  Italy.  The 
elements  of  this  collection  were  united  by  two  papal 
families :  the  Boncompagni  and  the  Ludovisi,  Gregory 
XIII.  and  Gregory  XV.  Between  these  two  families 
stand  the  Borghese  and  the  Aldobrandini,  Clement 


Anderson 


The  Cloister  of  Michael  Angelo,  National  Museum 


Anderson 


The  Birth  of  Venus,  National  Museum 


^-  -;-"'• 


Medusa,  National  Museum,  Rome 


The  Baths  of  Diocletian 


THE  CROWNED  EPHEBE  95 

VIII.  and  Paul  V.  In  these  four  names,  the  Torlonia 
of  today,  holding  their  treasures  of  the  Borghese  and 
the  Albani,  represent  almost  all  the  wonders  that 
Rome  possesses.  The  Medicis  and  the  Farnese  left 
nothing  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber.  The  Barberini 
and  the  Rospigliosi  distinguished  themselves  every- 
where by  works  contemporaneous  with  their  popes. 
So,  by  means  of  the  Ludovisi  collection,  purchased 
by  the  State,  we  are  able  to  form  an  idea  of  what  the 
pontiffs  left  for  their  nephews,  after  taking  what  they 
wanted  for  the  Vatican. 

The  quantity  which  the  popes  abandoned  to  their 
families  was  less  than  the  mass  of  works  reserved  for  the 
Vatican,  but  it  contained  quite  as  many  wonders,  which 
confirm  the  lesson  that  I  learned  at  the  Vatican  of  the 
Greek's  treatment  of  the  human  body.  The  piece 
formerly  called  P&tus  and  Aria,  then  H&mon  and 
Antigone — scholars  amuse  themselves  that  way — is 
now  the  Gaul  and  his  Wife.  Why,  on  coming  to  the 
Thermae  from  the  Villa  Ludovisi  had  the  grou'p  to 
change  its  name  ?  Because  of  those  mustaches,  although 
the  partisans  of  Haemon  say  truly  that  the  Thebians 
were  distinguished  by  this  ornament.  It  is  a  complete 
scene,  the  woman  already  dead  and  falling,  the  man 
standing,  plunging  his  sword  in  his  breast  from  which 
the  blood  gushes  forth.  Today  it  is  attributed  Per- 
gamum,  work  of  the  third  century  before  Christ.  The 
Satyr  Pouring  Wine  after  Praxiteles  is  full  of  mischief 
to  his  shoulders  which  laugh  with  his  lips.  Electra 
and  Orestes  are  holding  each  other  by  the  hand  and  you 
can  see  that  their  bodies  are  going  to  touch.  The 


96  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Cupid  playing  about  the  legs  of  the  Mars  in  Repose 
shows  us  that,  at  least  until  the  sixteenth  century, 
antique  sculpture  was  not  conceived  as  fixing  a  con- 
dition without  telling  a  story,  except  for  some  gods  or 
goddesses,  like  the  Juno  here.  The  most  precious 
piece  here,  as  much  for  its  rarity  as  for  its  value,  out- 
side of  all  contingent  remark,  is  the  bas-relief  of  the 
Birth  of  Venus.  The  goddess  comes  out  of  the  waves 
extending  her  arms  towards  the  Hours  who  help  her 
put  off  her  Greek  kiton,  with  its  flowing  and  transpar- 
ent folds,  in  the  same  manner  as  a  woman  now  puts 
off  her  skirt — if  her  hair  is  done.  What  lightness  and 
what  beautiful  assurance  in  the  lifted  profile  of  the 
goddess  mistress,  in  spite  of  the  aid  she  is  receiving! 
What  deference  is  indicated  in  the  Hours,  leaning 
toward  her,  serving,  without  helping,  her !  The  folds 
of  their  veils  undulate  like  the  waves  and  their  legs 
scarcely  bend  under  the  pressure  of  the  divine  body 
drawn  from  the  sea. 

These  are  incomparable  masterpieces,  but  no  more 
so  than  the  works  gathered  together  on  the  second 
floor:  the  Apollo,  the  Hygieia,  the  Bacchus  from  Had- 
rian's Villa,  the  famous  Pugilist,  whose  realism  sur- 
passes that  of  the  Gaul,  the  Hermaphrodite  of  which 
the  poor  copy  at  the  Louvre  can  give  no  idea,  the 
Sleeping  Erinys — called  the  Ludovisi  Medusa — the 
most  striking  presentation  of  what  can  be  expressed 
by  a  face  from  which,  for  an  instant,  life  has  gone 
out.  But  the  most  moving  of  anything  I  have  yet 
seen  is  the  Unknown  Kneeling  Youth — the  Ephebe — 
warrior,  wrestler,  or  son  of  Niobe,  one  knee  on  the 


THE  CROWNED  EPHEBE  97 

ground,  without  head  and  with  but  stumps  of  arms. 
The  line  of  the  torso  from  the  knee,  that  line  of  the 
hip  and  the  thigh,  is  a  wonder  of  truth,  of  active, 
supple  life.  One  wants  to  caress  it.  Besides,  it  has 
what  the  years  and  the  salts  of  the  earth  have  given 
it,  the  tint  of  old  ivory,  marks  which  seem  yellow  oil 
running  over  the  body  of  an  athlete.  We  feel  our- 
selves to  be  really  in  the  arena  of  Olympus  where  the 
young  man  proved  his  strength,  and  the  grain  of  the 
marble  is  the  grain  of  the  quivering  skin.  Our  eyes 
grow  big  as  we  look  at  this  wonderful  work  with  a 
desire  to  fix  every  detail  of  it  in  our  treacherous  memo- 
ries, to  retain  every  flexion,  every  atom  of  this  Parian 
marble,  and  the  desire  swells  up  within  me  to  hasten 
away  to  the  ancient  port  of  Ostia  and  take  boat  for 
the  shores  where  this  youth  must  still  be  wrestling. 

As  I  am  looking  at  it,  a  hand  touches  my  shoulder. 
The  friend  I  was  envying,  because  he  had  gone  to 
Greece  a  month  ago,  stands  beside  me. 

"I  have  come  back,"  he  says,  "and  before  going 
home,  I  wanted  to  pass  twenty-four  hours  in  Rome  to 
see  this  museum  once  more;  Athens  has  nothing  more 
beautiful." 

Is  he  trying  to  console  me  and  give  me  the  benefit 
of  his  knowledge?  We  go  down  among  the  flowers 
that  fill  the  cloisters,  letting  our  thoughts  mingle 
without  the  need  of  words.  How  long,  I  wonder, 
have  we  lingered  there,  breathing  the  perfume  of  the 
lilacs  and  resting  our  eyes  on  forms  divine  in  the  ten- 
derness of  spring?  It  is  my  friend  who  breaks  the 
silence : 


98  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

"Look  at  those  cypresses  planted  by  Michelangelo, 
one  of  which,  twisted  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of 
its  old  trunk,  seems  so  tormented  in  its  effort  to  go 
upward  that  it  must  remember  the  hand  that  planted 
it.  Look  at  these  beautiful  flower-beds  and  let  us 
give  thanks  to  those  who  know  so  well  how  to  enjoy 
treasures  bequeathed  to  them  by  men  and  renewed 
every  year  by  nature!" 

Spring  blossoms  about  us  among  a  thousand  marbles, 
formless  bits  whose  antiquity  forbade  that  they  be 
thrown  away.  Along  the  flat  paths  lie  lines  of  stones 
caressed  and  interlaced  by  plants.  Stones  peer  out 
from  among  flowers  and  flowers  stick  out  their  heads 
across  stones.  It  is  that  moving  sight  of  nature  once 
again  taking  the  upper  hand  over  the  works  of  man, 
and  in  the  joy  of  the  new  life,  flowers  and  stones  shine 
with  the  same  brilliancy.  Aristolochise,  the  aromatic 
and  mediaeval  birth-wort  of  the  people,  dances  around 
broken  pillars,  truncated  columns  offer  their  support 
to  the  frail  bind-weed  and  sustain  white  chalices. 
How  beautiful  these  remains  appear  thus  decorated, 
how  magnificent  and  worthy  of  the  proudest  temples ! 
To  the  wistaria  they  lend  their  immortal  splendour, 
perpetuating  themselves  with  it.  So  closely  united 
are  they  that  we  no  longer  know  which  gave  birth  to 
the  other,  the  capital  or  the  acanthus,  if  the  oak  gar- 
land gave  rise  to  the  architectural  loop-hole  or  the 
wild-grape  furnished  the  idea  of  the  frieze,  themselves 
dying  in  beauty  to  be  born  again  in  perfume.  No, 
indeed!  It  is  the  stone  which  is  born  again.  Over 
there,  past  a  broad  path,  the  flower-beds  are  kept 


THE  CROWNED  EPHEBE  99 

within  bounds  by  a  great  quadrilateral  of  sarcophagi, 
bare  and  robbed  of  their  reliefs ;  and  others  here  are 
overgrown  with  roses  which,  coming  to  life  in  a  coffin, 
grow  up  and  out,  passing  from  one  tomb  to  another, 
extending  the  arms  of  their  branches  to  make  the 
dead  smile  with  joy.  The  beauty  is  indescribable  of 
these  chains  of  flowers,  springing  out  of  the  marbles 
and  linking  them  together.  In  the  Forum  I  felt  the 
wonder  of  the  wistaria  and  the  oleanders  so  cautiously 
disposed  among  the  broken  marbles.  Here  there  is 
no  need  to  be  careful  to  avoid  hiding  too  much.  The 
beauty  can  only  be  the  beauty  of  all  together.  What 
a  cemetery  in  which  to  lie,  where  one  reaches  out  the 
hand  to  his  loved  ones  by  interlacing  branches,  or 
kisses  pass  from  rose  to  rose!  How  beautiful  and 
happy  such  death  must  be!  We  then  should  never 
again  see  the  sublime  works  of  miserable  men;  the 
sun  found  once  more  would  make  us  live  again  without 
inflicting  us  with  painful  life;  and  at  night,  perhaps, 
the  Youth  would  come  to  us  to  be  crowned  with  his 
victor's  wreath. 


YARDS 


NintH  Day 

THE  COLD  VENUS 

TKe  Villa  Borg'Hese 

DO  not  say  it  to  console  those  who 
cannot  drive,  but  as  a  simple  statement 
of  fact,  that  he  who  wishes  to  see  a  city 
well  must  do  so  on  foot.  Only  by 
strolling  about  does  one  come  upon 
all  its  sights,  meet  its  surprises,  make  discoveries,  have 
those  encounters  which  turn  the  long  and  sometimes 
severe  hours  of  the  pursuit  of  beauty  into  joy.  You 
can  become  acquainted  with  the  monuments  of  a  city 

100 


THE  COLD   VENUS  101 

by  driving  from  one  to  another,  but  you  will  know  the 
city  itself  no  better  than  you  know  a  house  in  which 
only  a  few  show  rooms  are  thrown  open  to  you. 

This  morning,  on  my  way  to  the  Villa  Borghese, 
I  have  walked  the  length  of  the  Corso  for  the  fifth 
or  sixth  time,  always  finding  something  unexpected 
which  is  the  traveller's  good  fortune,  his  rest,  and  en- 
tertainment. For  instance,  I  should  never  make  the 
effort  to  stop  the  cabman  at  San  Carlo.  Although  its 
luxury  is  not  exceptional,  or,  maybe,  because  it  is  not, 
it  was  much  talked  about  in  Rome  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  Would  the  mere  attractiveness  of  the  out- 
side of  a  shop  induce  me  to  keep  cabby  waiting  while 
I  entered  it  and  rummaged  a  fruitful  mass  of  old  stuff  ? 
Would  that  photographer's  show-case  have  reminded 
me  of  a  palace  I  had  forgotten?  No  more,  this  morn- 
ing, had  I  been  crawling  up  the  Pincio  in  a  hack, 
should  I  have  stepped  into  San  Lorenzo  in  Lucina. 
By  the  tomb  of  Poussin,  I  found  the  donor,  Chateau- 
briand, and,  after  begging  his  company  to  the  Villa 
Borghese,  I  further  made  bold  to  propose  to  him 
on  the  way  to  pass  by  the  Piazza,  di  Spagna  and  ask 
his  friend,  Mme.  de  Beaumont,  to  go  with  us.  It  was, 
therefore,  with  their  charming  escort  that  I  attacked 
the  stiff  climb  of  the  Spanish  Steps  up  to  the  Trinita 
de'  Monti. 

Between  those  two  companions  I  could  have 
mounted  Jacob's  ladder!  What  could  I  care  about 
comfort  with  gentle  Pauline  on  my  arm,  with  such 
an  opportunity  to  show  how  gallant  I  can  be  before 
my  master,  her  conqueror,  who  has  already  distanced 


102  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

us  with  his  quick,  firm  step.  His  ancestors  "sowed 
gold,"  and  he  does  the  same,  even  the  precious  heart 
of  her  whose  love  for  him  was  killing  her.  I  buy  a 
bunch  of  field  anemone  from  the  flower  sellers  who  sit 
upon  these  steps  making  them  the  floral  pedestal  upon 
which  the  church  stands  and  I  promise  the  dying 
Pauline  to  lay  them  on  the  threshold  of  Saint-Louis 
des  Franc,ais  this  evening  after  I  have  left  her  to  rest 
in  the  place  that  Rend  had  arranged  for  her. 

Was  it  not  at  the  time  when  Chateaubriand  was 
living  in  Rome,  waiting  but  not  longing  for  his  friend, 
that  the  French  Academy  of  Beaux-Arts  was  trans- 
ferred from  the  Palazzo  Salviati  to  the  Villa  Medici? 
Chateaubriand  was  among  the  foremost  to  rejoice 
that  France  had  become  proprietor  of  one  of  the  most 
charming  buildings  in  Rome,  a  place  admired  by  the 
whole  world  and  whose  prospect  over  the  city  has 
not  yet  been  eclipsed  even  by  such  points  of  observa- 
tion as  the  Janiculum.  Seated  upon  the  Monti  of 
the  Trinita  this  pleasure  house  of  the  last  Florentine 
pope,  this  historic  Villa  Medici  of  the  little  towers, 
spreads  her  terraces  towards  Rome,  commanding  her 
without  menace,  whereas  the  Quirinal,  the  Vatican, 
the  Victor  Emmanuel  Monument,  even  the  silhouette 
of  Garibaldi,  up  there  above  the  Trastevere,  seem  to 
hang  somewhat  heavily  over  modern  Rome  spread 
out  upon  what  used  to  be  Campus  Martius. 

Both  Poussin  and  Lorrain  always  lived  on  these 
heights.  The  air  is  full  of  pleasantness.  Those  who 
chose  this  beautiful  pleasure  palace  with  the  little 
towers  for  France,  had  thought  only  of  beauty,  and 


THE  COLD  VENUS  103 

the  young  people  who  work  here  are  full  of  homage 
for  Rome,  asking  of  her  but  the  joy  of  her  beautiful 
possessions  whose  expenses  have  all  been  paid  by 
antiquity.  We  have  come  here  as  brothers,  and  our 
villa  above  Rome  is  a  balcony  from  which  nothing 
but  flowers  falls  upon  those  who  pass  beneath.  , 

How  often  do  the  Romans  graze  these  walls  of 
ours  on  the  road  to  the  Pincio,  the  celebrated  prome- 
nade which  is  also  a  French  work.  Like  many  an- 
other thing  in  Rome,  this  promenade  was  created 
by  Napoleon's  prefet,  Tournon.  In  Stendhal's  time, 
Italy  was  forbidden  to  recall  even  the  good  results  of 
the  French  occupation,  but  for  seventy-five  years 
Rome  has  taken  her  evening  promenade  on  the  Pincio, 
blessing  the  French  for  it. 

Now  the  fashion  is  somewhat  passed  for  the  little 
Pincio  from  which  Lucullus  once  looked  at  the  agita- 
tions he  had  helped  to  arouse  in  creating  the  policy 
of  conquest  so  unfortunate  for  his  country.  Like 
some  of  the  forums,  it  is  transitory.  But  for  three- 
quarters  of  a  century  it  had  to  be  content  to  take  the 
air  here  at  the  hour  when  the  sun  sets  upon  the  Antium. 
The  entire  turn  of  the  promenade  was  made  in  ten 
minutes.  The  Villa  Borghese,  with  its  meadows  and 
its  oaks,  lay  close  behind  it,  but  separated  from  it  by 
a  deep  valley  which  is  spanned  now;  and  the  ancient 
garden  of  Lucullus  is  but  a  part  of  the  young  Villa 
Borghese,  dating  only  from  the  seventeenth  century. 
The  Romans  who  remember  Goethe's  epigram, 
"Many  disasters  have  afflicted  humanity,  none  have 
given  so  much  pleasure  to  posterity  as  the  disaster  to 


104  A.  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Pompeii,"  may  apply  it  to  the  financial  crash  that 
ruined  the  Borghese.  That  disaster  enabled  King 
Umberto  to  buy  the  collection,  threatened  with  dis- 
persion, together  with  the  Villa  and  the  park  which 
the  real  estate  agents  hoped  to  cut  up  into  building 
plots.  The  next  day  the  State  gave  them  to  Rome. 
The  Pincio  and  the  Villa  with  its  park  are  all  one  now, 
and  the  beautiful  spaces  are  open  to  the  games  of  the 
people,  the  paths  are  free  to  all  promenaders,  the 
lakes  mirror  the  infinite  for  the  reveries  of  rich  or 
poor.  "The  present  Prince  Borghese,"  wrote  Stend- 
hal in  1828,  "holds  the  title  of  four  principalities  and 
nobly  enjoys  his  income,  estimated  at  twelve  hundred 
thousand  francs  equivalent  to  about  £4800  or  $240,000 
which  will  be  increased  tenfold  if  ever  Rome  enjoys 
a  rational  government."  The  nephews  of  Paul  V. 
Borghese  had  needed  but  fifteen  years  to  enrich  them- 
selves thus,  and  their  fortune  made  the  Prince  Camillo 
a  welcome  brother-in-law  to  Napoleon.  But  Pauline's 
grand-nephew  wishing, — to  verify  Stendhal, — to  in- 
crease his  income  tenfold,  in  a  year  the  fortune 
was  gone.  Happily  King  Umberto  prevented  him 
from  sending  into  exile  the  statue  of  his  ancestress 
which  Italy  is  proud  to  show  today  as  the  most  beau- 
tiful woman's  body  that  Latin  blood  ever  formed  and 
as  the  most  notable  masterpiece  of  modern  Roman  art. 
The  park  is  now  one  of  broad  avenues  of  great 
pollarded  trees,  bordering  vast  lawns,  already  laid 
off  for  sports,  but  still  with  the  charm  of  retirement 
in  the  depths  of  oak  woods  and  groves  of  the  umbrella 
pine.  Besides,  everywhere  there  are  delightful 


THE  COLD  VENUS  105 

shaded  corners.  The  Lake  Garden,  an  enclosure  like 
the  Pre-Catelan  of  Paris,  has  pretty  lawns  set  off  by 
clumps  of  trees,  a  lake  with  a  throne  of  rocks  in  its 
midst,  and  swans  swimming  about  pompously.  Be- 
hind it,  a  little  mediaeval  castle  hides  its  absurdity 
under  the  bushes.  Farther  on,  a  false  ruin,  not  with- 
out character,  imitation  of  the  Temple  of  Faustina, 
does  no  harm  to  the  great  umbrella  pines  which  stand 
beside  it.  Elsewhere  are  a  charming  temple  of  Diana, 
the  Fountain  of  the  Four  Horses,  and,  by  well-trimmed 
paths,  we  arrive  at  the  Casino  which  contains  the 
museum. 

Upon  a  level  of  its  own,  surrounded  by  groves,  and 
flanked  by  a  pretentious  garden  somewhat  neglected 
nowadays,  the  Casino  stands  flat,  with  no  striking 
originality;  a  white,  square  mass  whose  sole  decora- 
tions are  the  loggia  of  the  ground  floor  and  the  terrace 
upon  which  the  storey  above  sets  back.  The  interior, 
on  the  contrary,  has  such  a  profusion  of  ornament  that 
one  thinks  himself  in  a  Roman  church.  In  the  middle 
of  the  vestibule,  where  walls,  inlaid  with  many  coloured 
stones  support  a  coffer-ceiling,  illuminated  by  nudities, 
a  Roman  altar  to  Jesus  would  be  quite  at  home. 
The  ceiling,  indeed,  would  do  admirably  in  the  Vittoria. 

Antiques  cut  a  droll  figure  here.  They  have  hast- 
ened to  make  their  toilet,  ready  for  the  decadence, 
and  shine  with  wonderful  lustre.  There  are  some 
beautiful  ones,  especially  the  bas-reliefs,  the  Ajax  and 
Cassandra,  among  others,  besides  those  of  certain 
sarcophagi,  and  some  statues,  like  the  Dancing  Satyr. 
But  everything  is  too  bright.  They  must  have  been 


io6  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

polished  so  hard  and  then  washed  with  soap,  to  such 
an  extent  that  they  have  lost  their  own  character- 
istics and  look  as  if  they  were  all  members  of  one 
family.  They  are  good  studio  copies  whose  toilet 
has  been  made  by  Dutch  valets.  The  worst  of  it  is 
that  at  first  sight  they  make  a  pleasant  impression 
in  these  great,  light,  shining  halls.  Their  patches  of 
whiteness  are  in  harmony  with  these  brilliant  ceilings 
and  walls.  I  know  that  they  are  only  the  things 
that  Napoleon  did  not  want,  for  all  the  masterpieces 
of  the  Borghese  collection  are  in  the  Louvre  today. 
France  has  not  been  obliged  to  give  them  up  because 
Napoleon  did  not  take  them  by  conquest,  but  bought 
them.  Although  the  works  that  remain  merit  some- 
thing better  than  to  have  been  thus  scoured  down  to 
a  sameness,  the  moment  we  escape  from  the  spell  of 
the  general  harmony  we  find  that  they  have  sunk 
into  our  memories  to  be  recalled  only  with  an  indiffer- 
ence that  treats  them  all  alike.  At  least,  it  is  so  with 
me,  and  I  defy  my  memory  to  let  slip  twenty  or  thirty 
statues  from  the  Vatican  or  five  or  six  from  the  Ther- 
mae. The  Greek  art  of  the  Borghese  makes  me  think 
of  a  group  of  artists  of  the  same  age  working  togethei 
for  ten  years,  and  when  they  stopped  they  knew  no 
more  of  what  had  existed  before  them  than  as  if  there 
had  been  no  art  before  theirs.  They  had  talent,  that 
is  clear,  and  that  is  all ;  but  they  watched  one  another 
and  picked  craft  from  one  another,  that,  too,  is  only 
too  clear.  And  I,  so  enamoured  of  the  antique  that, 
ever  since  coming  to  Rome,  it  is  only  by  strong  effort 
that  I  can  force  myself  to  do  anything  but  pass  my 


THE  COLD  VENUS  107 

days  exclusively  at  the  Thermae,  at  the  Vatican,  at 
the  Forum,  or  at  the  Palatine,  when  I  leave  the  Villa 
Borghese  I  am  thinking  of  Bernini  and  Canova. 

The  Cavaliere  Bernini  and  Canova  are  indeed  the 
two  lights  of  this  museum,  shining  in  the  setting  that 
suits  them,  their  work  being  of  a  high  order  of  in- 
trinsic merit.  Bernini's  work,  being  only  that  of  his 
youth,  was  done  before  his  style  was  corrupted.  We 
shall  so  often  have  occasion  to  condemn  him,  let  us 
hasten  to  admire  him  while  we  can.  He  has  done  a 
great  deal  of  harm,  but  we  need  no  more  reproach 
him  for  the  school,  which  fastened  itself  to  him  much 
more  than  he  drew  it  to  himself,  than  we  need  blame 
Michelangelo  for  Bernini's  artistic  existence.  The 
painter  of  the  Sistine  created  a  taste  for  extravagant 
forms,  which  his  genius  alone  excuses  because  he 
alone  could  make  them  right,  disarming  all  our  arsenal 
of  reasons  against  them.  He,  above  all,  started  the 
confusion  of  sculpture  and  painting,  the  great  crime 
of  the  Baroque.  Then  sculpture  became  painting, 
all  the  sculptors  wanted  to  be  painters,  and  for  almost 
two  centuries  we  have  been  witnesses  to  the  spectacle 
of  the  souls  of  painters  expressing  themselves  in 
sculpture.  It  is  not  the  superposition  of  talents  that 
shocks  us:  the  Renaissance  proved  that  one  man  can 
cultivate  all  the  arts  together.  The  trouble  is  not 
that  a  painter  is  also  a  sculptor;  it  is  that  he  tries  to 
introduce  into  sculpture  that  which  essentially  belongs 
to  the  domain  of  painting.  Bernini's  first  work  is 
charming  because  he  had  not  yet  attempted  that 
bizarre  mixture  to  which  he  later  sacrificed  everything 


io8  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

in  his  allegorical  and  narrative  tombs,  composed  like 
frescoes,  arranged  under  lights  as  if  they  were  can- 
vases. He  was  acquainted  with  the  antique  and 
he  had  seized  upon  the  difference  that  exists  between 
action  and  anecdote,  between  time  and  the  moment. 
The  decadence  into  which  his  success  dragged  him 
shows  us  no  doubt  that  he  saw  the  antique  only  on 
the  outer  side,  superficially;  that  he  did  not  look  for 
the  heart  within.  But  he  saw  it  and  remained  under 
its  spell  during  the  years  of  his  innocence;  and  at  that 
epoch  he  is  charming.  His  young  David  is  in  perfect 
balance,  his  action  arrested  at  the  -instant  when  a 
hair  further  would  have  made  it  an  exaggeration. 
jEneas  Carrying  Anchises  is  less  happy.  The  elder 
Ingres  said,  "Horace  Vernet  has  arms!"  Bernini 
has  no  arms.  But  what  an  exquisite  masterpiece  is 
Apollo  and  Daphne!  In  the  torso  of  Apollo  we  recog- 
nize that  of  the  Apollo  of  the  Belvedere,  and  in  the 
Daphne  an  archaic  Daphne  now  in  Copenhagen. 
Disciples  of  Bernini,  if  you  had  but  imitated  this ! 

This  group,  thanks  to  the  sources  of  its  inspiration, 
has  a  delicious  purity,  showing  taste  as  yet  uncon- 
taminated,  grace  in  its  action,  restraint  and  precision 
in  the  dramatic  moment,  the  soul  and  the  hand  of  a 
master  raised  in  a  holy  school.  But  how  soon  Bernini 
fell!  The  genius  of  Michelangelo's  disciple  burned 
with  too  feeble  a  flame  to  keep  him  up  long  enough 
to  carry  out,  as  did  Michelangelo,  the  audacious 
inspirations  that  filled  his  soul.  While  waiting  for 
the  hour  of  the  Piazza  Navona,  he  gave  free  play  to 
his  fine  and  charming  talent,  for  which,  had  it  stopped 


•a 


m 


m 


Anderson  Anderson 

Apollo  and  Daphne,  Borghese     Santa  Maria  della  Victoria  and  Santa  Teresa, 
Gallery  by  Bernini 


Anderson 


Pauline  Bonaparte,  by  Canova,  Borghese  Gallery 


THE  COLD  VENUS  109 

at  this  point,  we  could  have  done  nothing  but  thank 
him.  How  excusable,  how  delicious  even  should  we 
have  found  some  trifle  of  bad  taste,  as  a  precursor, 
in  the  Daphne,  which  already  had  somewhat  too  many 
laurels!  If  we  are  severe  a'gainst  Bernini,  it  is  be- 
cause he  eclipsed  his  glory,  not  only  by  his  own  later 
work,  but  by  the  work  of  the  century  which  bears  his 
name. 

It  was  necessary  that  Canova  be  born,  for  sculp- 
ture to  become  once  more  plastic,  and  he  should  be 
judged  above  all  for  the  effort  he  made.  All  that  he 
saw,  the  work  of  his  masters  and  his  predecessors, 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  fatal  to  his  chisel,  since 
he  lacked  virility.  He  was  sculptor  by  chance;  but 
he  stuck  to  his  trade,  and  sculpture  was  saved.  Clear 
reason  and  admirable  good  sense !  Born  in  the  midst 
of  the  artistic  aberration  which  everything  invited 
him  to  follow,  he  evaded  it  all  and  brought  the  art 
of  sculpture  back  into  the  good  way.  He  did  not 
carry  it  to  the  highest  rank,  to  the  sublime,  but  he 
raised  it  from  the  depths  to  which  it  had  fallen  and 
showed  the  world  once  more  that  a  sculptor  could 
model  forms,  that  he  could  arouse  emotion  by  atti- 
tudes without  narrating  fables  or  composing  dramas 
— that  he  could  be  simple  and  yet  please.  I  shall  see 
him  again  at  Saint  Peter's,  to  which  he  has  given  his 
best,  I  shall  see  him  beside  Bernini  and  compare  the 
two.  But  is  it  necessary  to  wait  to  do  that?  This 
morning,  before  coming  up  here,  I  entered  Santa 
Maria  della  Vittoria  and  looked  at  Bernini's  famous 
Saint  Theresa. 


I  io  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Canova's  Pauline  Borghese  may  be  summed  up  as 
a  work  of  charm,  of  grace,  restrained  in  a  sensual 
audacity  which  is  calm  with  nothing  from  any  point 
of  view  that  is  either  low  or  unhealthy.  Canova 
realized  the  tour  de  force  of  representing  to  her  friends 
a  lady,  immodest  and  provoking,  in  such  a  manner 
that  she  could  arouse  nothing  but  respectful  homage, 
even  were  it  mingled  with  desire.  Pauline  Borghese 
was  shameless,  yet  she  inspires  us  with  nothing  but 
admiration,  so  far  as  the  woman  is  concerned.  The 
attention  we  pay  to  her  is  not  materially  different 
from  that  we  give  to  the  Venus  of  Cnidus.  She  may 
be  reclining, — a  pose  that  antiquity  almost  never 
dared  to  use  except  for  a  monster,  the  Hermaphrodite, 
— she  is  still  a  goddess  whom  no  one  would  think  of 
approaching.  Nude  except  for  a  light  veil  about  her 
hips,  drawn  in  between  the  thighs,  and  soon  leaving 
free  the  legs  of  a  Diana,  Pauline  offers  to  the  passer-by 
an  apple  which  he  would  never  dream  of  taking. 

And  the  Saint  Theresa?  She  lies  swooning  in  a 
church  that  is  more  gilded  and  overdone  than  the 
foyer  of  the  Ope'ra  in  Paris.  Above  her  the  lines  of  a 
thousand  chariots  cut  one  another  into  pieces  and 
five  or  six  angels,  all  white  and  life-sized,  are  tumbling 
out  of  heaven,  hanging  from  the  cornices  by  their 
sashes,  or,  held  by  invisible  wires,  are  apparently 
floating  in  sanctified  freedom.  With  eyes  upside- 
down,  arms  and  legs  consenting,  Theresa  allows  her 
robe  to  be  opened  by  an  angel  who,  with  a  mischievous 
gesture,  accentuated  by  the  coquettish  look  of  his 
eye,  lets  fly  an  arrow  at  her.  Is  it  an  angel  or  Cupid? 


THE  COLD  VENUS  in 

"If  that  is  Divine  Love,"  said  President  de  Brosses, 
"I  know  it.  One  sees  here  below  a  hundred  copies 
of  it  after  nature." 

Bernini,  perhaps,  would  have  been  flattered  by  this 
appreciation  of  his  realism — and  of  his  clairvoyant 
amours.  He  would  have  been  less  so,  however,  if  he 
had  thought  of  the  sarcophagus  of  Alexander  Severus, 
for  instance;  then  the  author  of  the  Apollo  and  Daphne 
would  have  hung  his  head.  Do  we  now  understand 
the  difference  which  separates  these  two  works  and 
these  two  men?  Bernini  is  almost  sacrilegious;  any- 
way he  is  odious,  and  above  all,  false  in  this  parody 
of  love.  Canova,  on  the  contrary,  is  admirable  in  his 
morality  and  his  truthfulness,  while  his  implacable 
irony  is  almost  enough  to  frighten  one.  He  under- 
stood, possibly  by  the  mere  order  for  the  statue,  or  in 
the  acceptance  of  his  conception  of  it,  the  depths  of 
that  little,  unfeeling  heart  of  a  bird,  that  flesh  so 
happy  and  so  tireless  in  taking  care  of  itself,  and  he 
punished  the  brazen,  shallow  soul  by  presenting  it 
without  compromise.  There  it  is,  in  the  faultless, 
superb  body  which  is  as  cold  as  the  marble  which  petri- 
fies it.  It  is  Venus,  but  an  unfeeling  Venus  who  does 
not  know  how  to  love,  who  can't  love,  and  who  does 
not  want  to  love  for  fear  of  losing  some  of  her  beauty. 
Pauline  is  beautiful,  but  no  one  can  regret  not  having 
known  her.  The  shoulders,  a  little  thin,  the  small, 
pointed  nose,  the  dull  forehead  arouse  no  desire  to 
possess  her  in  any  other  form  than  that  in  which 
Canova  has  fixed  her. 

Thus  petrified,  she  has  her  place  beside  Bernini's 


U2  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


defiled  Saint  Theresa,  showing  how  Canova  took  up 
and  added  a  new  link  to  the  great  traditional  chain, 
triumphant  after  two  centuries  of  lies  and  stupidity. 
He  proves  conclusively  that  sculpture  can  be  elo- 
quent, even  terrible,  in  representing  a  state,  that  it  is 
not  to  tell  a  story;  that  it  can  be  moving  in  the  inter- 
pretation of  a  soul  without  detailing  the  agitations 
that  vibrate  within  it.  Theresa,  in  her  swoon,  says 
exactly  the  opposite  of  what  the  saint  is  intended  to 
express.  Pauline,  in  merely  showing  herself,  unveils 
more  of  herself  than  she  is  aware  of.  A  woman 
in  a  faint  takes  advantage  of  us,  whereas  she  who 
is  merely  tranquil  teaches  us  something.  Sculpture 
has  been  re-established,  but  since  Canova  no  one  else 
has  dared. 

The  paintings,  on  the  second  floor  of  the  Villa 
Borghese,  have  suffered  the  same  selection,  and  prob- 
ably the  same  repairs,  as  those  that  swept  through  the 
gallery  of  antiquities.  Many  important  works  had 
been  taken  out  of  it  before  it  was  bought  by  the  King. 
Among  those  in  the  possession  of  France  is  the  famous 
Casar  Borgia  by  Raphael,  which  is  neither  by  Raphael 
nor  of  Caesar  Borgia.  When  Caesar  appeared  upon  the 
scene  of  the  world,  Raphael,  was  nine  years  old, 
growing  at  Urbino  and  learning  to  hold  the  brush. 
He  was  scarcely  twenty  when  Caesar  disappeared, 
and  the  only  city  that  he  knew  at  that  time,  except 
Perugia,  where  he  had  passed  five  or  six  years,  was 
Florence,  where  Caesar,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  did  not 
risk  his  presence.  Moreover,  is  it  likely  that  Caesar 
would  order  his  portrait  of  that  young  art-student  of 


THE  COLD  VENUS  113 

Perugia?  In  1503  Cassar  sailed  for  Spain;  Raphael 
had  been  living  just  a  year  at  Florence.  Besides,  it 
has  lately  been  discovered  that  the  costume  of  this 
so-called  Casar,  the  doublet  with  the  slashed  sleeves, 
was  not  worn  until  1550.  This  famous  portrait  of  an 
unknown  man,  is  perhaps  the  work  of  Parmigiano, 
more  likely  of  Bronzino. 

Maybe  remembrance  of  that  canvas  so  rashly 
ascribed  to  both  sitter  and  painter  who  can  have  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it,  has  put  me  too  much  on  guard ; 
or,  perhaps,  the  first  floor  exerts  an  influence  upon  the 
second.  However  it  is,  I  am  not  impressed  by  the 
illustrious  names  upon  the  little  plates.  "I  am 
Francia,  I  am  Botticelli,  I  am  Perugino,  I  am  Lorenzo 
di  Credi,  I  am  Sodoma  ..."  the  canvases  announce 
themselves,  and  such  they  may  be,  but  I  do  not  feel 
attracted  to  them.  Oh,  they  are  very  interesting; 
their  style  is  impeccable;  but  of  importance  rather  to 
the  man  who  is  studying  an  epoch,  a  genre,  an  influ- 
ence, the  method  or  the  works  of  their  painters,  than 
to  him  who  seeks  a  direct  emotion,  the  characteristic 
manifestation  of  a  temperament.  They  are  good 
pictures  by  excellent  painters,  but  not  unique  work, 
long  cherished  in  mind  and  heart  to  be  brushed  in 
during  a  few  hours  of  enthusiasm  at  white  heat.  They 
seem  to  me  to  be  works  of  the  masters'  studios,  signed 
by  the  masters'  hands,  perhaps,  yet  not  altogether 
the  masters'  productions.  This  Holy  Family  may  be 
incontestably  a  Sodoma,  but  it  adds  nothing  to  our 
acquaintance  with  Antonio  Bazzi,  if  we  have  been  to 
Siena  and  Monte  Oliveto;  and  he  who  does  not  know 

8 


u4  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

the  desert  of  Accona  can  only  come  into  touch  with 
Sodoma  in  Rome  at  the  Farnesina.  Titian  himself, 
in  his  Sacred  and  Profane  Love,  never  expresses  more 
than  he  has  to  say  at  the  Louvre  and  at  Florence, 
however  rich  may  be  his  palette  or  however  sure  his 
hand,  however  noble  and  true  his  composition  or 
however  powerful  the  grace  of  his  nudes.  Correggio, 
in  his  Danae,  says  nothing  to  me  that  I  have  not  better 
understood  at  Parma.  Filled  with  interesting,  curious, 
edifying,  even  attractive  works  as  the  Borghese  Gallery 
is,  we  should  find  in  it  no  revelation,  no  crowning  piece 
if  Domenico  Zampieri  had  not  scattered  there  the 
noblest  and  most  charming  expressions  of  his  genius. 

With  a  look  at  him  I  am  leaving.  Beside  him, 
however,  hangs  very  modest,  but  so  voluptuous,  a 
Sibyl  by  Cagnacci,  a  lesser  master,  pupil  of  Guido 
Reni.  He  who  made  the  rose-coloured  velvet  of  these 
breasts  is  he  who  painted  that  abomination,  the 
gentleman  in  doublet,  crucified  and  disgusting  with 
blood,  which  I  saw  at  Rimini.1  Those  Bolognese 
had  wonderful  virtuosity.  Domenichino  shows  more 
of  it  in  this  amazing  canvas  than  can  be  found  in  all 
the  rest  of  his  work.  His  Diana  and  her  Nymphs  is 
master-prose,  a  sonnet,  an  act  of  a  drama,  a  sonata, 
figurine  or  bust  executed  some  morning  under  the 
spell  of  fantasy  by  poet,  musician,  goldsmith,  or 
sculptor,  an  expression,  such  as  those  sons  of  Bologna 
were  impelled  to  give  by  their  best,  their  freshest, 
their  most  free  and  happy  genius.  I  shall  soon  see 
Domenichino  in  his  frescoes,  where  he  must  be  solid, 

1  Little  Cities  of  Italy,  vol.  ii.,  chap.  ix. 


THE  COLD   VENUS  115 

conscientious,  and  noble.  Today  I  admire  his  emo- 
tional soul,  keen  for  beauty,  the  lack  of  which  in  his 
own  person  caused  him  so  much  suffering,  perfectly 
sincere,  free,  letting  himself  go  to  radiant  nature,  for 
his  love  of  which  Poussin  so  loved  him.  This  work, 
here,  is  a  marvel  of  suppleness,  fertility,  and  charm  and 
always  of  perfect  taste  and  the  subtility  which  gives 
distinction.  The  precision  of  drawing  is  impeccable 
— he  could  not  trifle  with  that  while  caressing  Diana's 
maidens.  The  poses  are  audacious, — see  that  of  the 
nymph  who  has  fallen  to  the  ground, — and  wonderfully 
true,  like  that  of  another  nymph  untying  her  sandal. 
What  beautiful  dignity,  what  reserve  in  the  boldness 
that  always  leads  him  on,  yet  stays  his  hand  from 
any  vulgarity  or  brutality!  Diana,  watching  her 
nymphs  at  play  is  calm  and  vigilant,  even  over  their 
amusements,  indulgent  toward  them,  although  taking 
no  part  in  them.  In  a  country  that  is  fresh  and 
abundant  without  being  over-charged,  surrounded  by 
nature  to  which  they  belong,  the  innocent  and  mis- 
chievous troupe  frolic  around  their  goddess,  as  un- 
conscious of  their  nudity  as  Eve,  they  run,  pretend  to 
be  dignified,  draw  their  bows,  and  let  fly  well-aimed 
arrows  at  the  birds,  and  laugh  at  any  Endymion  who 
may  approach,  while  they  set  the  dogs  on  him.  The 
variety  of  characters,  the  diversity  of  attitudes,  the 
noble  purity  of  these  nudes,  so  daring  in  pose  con- 
sidered beside  the  serious  attitudes  of  his  Saint  Jerome 
and  the  energy  in  his  Saint  Sebastian  place  Domeni- 
chino  among  the  first  of  his  time.  Benefizio  himself, 
the  great  Venetian,  he  of  the  Rich  Man's  Feast,  at  the 


n6  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


Academy  of  Venice,  has  done  nothing  more  ample, 
truer,  or  more  full  of  warmth.  With  more  strength 
and  perhaps  with  a  little  less  of  the  commonplace  in 
his  figures,  Domenico  Zampieri  would  be  a  sort  of 
Veronese. 


TentK  Day 

THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN 

THe  DomenicHinos 

HE  French  soldiers  in  Africa  suffer  from 
an  illness  that  they  call  the  cafard. 
When  an  officer,  riding  in  the  bled — 
which  is  our  name  for  the  interior  of 
that  country — comes  upon  one  of  his 
men,  he  asks  him,  not  too  sternly,  what  he  is  doing 

117 


Ii8  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

there.  "If  you  are  deserting,  go  back  to  barracks  and 
I  will  say  nothing  about  it. "  The  soldier  has  not  the  air 
of  a  culprit  and  answers  simply :  "Excuse  me,  Captain, 
I  must  go  through  my  cafard. ' '  The  officer  understands 
that  it  is  useless  to  say  more.  He,  too,  has  had  his 
attack  of  cafard,  and  was  granted  leave  to  go  to  Tunis 
or  to  Algiers  until  he  was  cured.  Whoever  the  man  is, 
he  must  go  away,  be  alone,  and  after  a  week,  he  returns 
by  himself  to  his  prisoner's  life  in  camp  or  barracks. 
When  he  has  had  his  cafard  he  is  ready  for  anything. 
What  is  the  cafard?  An  overpowering  impulse  to 
rush  away  from  the  daily  treadmill,  an  irresistible 
attack  of  headstrongness,  the  feeling  that  one  must 
do  what  he  wants  to  do,  insane  though  he  knows  it  to 
be;  it  is  the  revolt  of  the  restive  beast  that  hides  in  all 
of  us;  it  is  the  wife  who  runs  away  from  the  husband 
she  loves,  because  she  finds  her  life  with  him  tiresome, 
returning  three  days  later  bathed  in  tears;  it  is,  per- 
haps, the  affirmation  of  our  free-will.  The  cifard  is 
the  most  serious  objection  that  can  be  raised  against 
determinism,  at  least  against  the  theory  that  deter- 
minism does  not  operate  in  favour  of  our  ruling 
necessities,  since  we  are  obliged  to  do  or  to  pass 
through  that  which  we  know  in  advance  to  be  stupid 
and  pernicious. 

I  have  just  had  my  attack  of  cafard.  Every  travel- 
ler is  threatened  with  it.  One  day  he  lingers  in  a 
place  where  he  should  not  waste  his  time,  he  passes 
by  a  city  in  which  he  had  promised  himself  much 
satisfaction,  he  follows  advice  that  he  knows  in  ad- 
vance is  inopportune;  in  fact,  he  breaks  away  from 


THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN  119 

the  wise  method  he  had  adopted  as  the  fruit  of  experi- 
ence, and  runs  after  something  or  some  one  as  if  he 
had  been  caught  up  in  the  whirlwind  of  a  cross-country 
chase.  My  cafard  has  been  of  this  nature ;  from  early 
morning  I  have  pursued,  at  first  on  foot,  then  after- 
wards in  a  carriage,  and  in  a  railway  train,  a  noble 
creature  that  I  have  run  down  in  all  his  hiding-places, 
far  as  he  has  led  me  afield.  I  gave  him  up  only  at 
nightfall,  disgusted  with  the  foolishness  that  had 
made  me  consume  an  entire  day  simply  to  see  con- 
nectedly what  I  might  have  found  one  by  one  in  the 
course  of  my  daily  saunterings;  but  I  am  happy  just 
the  same ;  my  cafard  is  passed.  The  soldier  in  Africa 
runs  away  to  seek  he  does  not  know  what.  I  have 
the  satisfaction  of  having  had  an  object.  It  was 
irresistibly  imposed  upon  me  by  my  visit  to  the  Villa 
Borghese  yesterday.  I  could  not  sleep  last  night  from 
seeing  the  nymphs  and  dogs  of  Domenichino's  Diana 
jump  before  my  eyes  in  the  moonlight  as  the  hours 
were  rung  off  by  the  clock  of  Monte  Citorio.  I  felt 
that  my  days  thereafter  would  be  poisoned  until  I  had 
seen  everything  of  him  whose  deliciously  pagan  work 
had  so  seduced  me.  How  had  I  been  able  to  live  so 
long  without  knowing  him  better?  At  the  Louvre 
I  have  stopped  twenty  times  before  the  canvases 
signed  by  his  name.  Had  Stendhal's  admiration  for 
the  Bolognese  school  aroused  in  me  some  antagonistic 
prejudice  against  Domenichino?  It  is  so  easy  to  rail 
at  fashionable  admirations,  such  as  that  which  arose 
in  France  about  the  year  1885,  for  the  Quattrocentists. 
We  might  as  well  mock  ourselves  for  the  disdain 


120  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

inspired  by  the  admiration  of  critics.  Stendhal  so 
swooned  before  the  school  of  the  Carracci  that  we  re- 
volted, besides  it  was  at  that  moment  that  Stendhal 
became  popular,  and  people  of  taste  suspected  Domeni- 
chino  and  his  masters.  After  my  visit  to  the  Villa 
Borghese  I  thought  of  nothing  but  of  making  my 
excuses  to  him.  At  eight  o'clock  this  evening  they 
are  made,  and  I  believe  that  my  face  as  I  have  been 
looking  at  him  has  expressed  all  the  pardon  I  could 
have  craved  on  my  knees.  At  the  Barberini  and 
Rospigliosi  palaces,  at  San  Andrea  della  Valle  and 
at  San  Silvestro  at  Quirinale  from  Santa  Maria  degli 
Angeli  and  San  Onofrio  to  San  Gregorio  and  San 
Luigi  dei  Francesi,  and  then  in  the  Alban  Mountains 
to  the  Grotta  Ferrata.  Running  from  the  Campus 
Martius  to  the  Janiculum,  from  the  Quirinal  to  the 
Caslius,  I  crossed  Rome  without  seeing  it,  visited  the 
churches  without  looking  at  them.  What  a  deplorable 
way  of  doing !  No  matter.  This  evening  I  am  ashamed , 
but  contented.  "I  have  my  pope!"  said  Emile  Zola 
on  his  return  from  Rome  where,  by  the  way,  he  had 
not  seen  the  Pope.  I  have  my  Domenichino,  and  I 
have  seen  him,  too.  I  came  back  from  the  Grotta 
Ferrata  in  company  with  Malvasia,  his  biographer. 
Let  us  read  the  touching  history  together,  let  us  look 
at  his  works,  let  us  judge  him — with  partiality  per- 
haps, but  with  human  feeling. 

Domenico  Zampieri  was  born  at  Bologna.  His 
father  kept  a  shoemaker's  shop.  At  that  time  the 
works  of  Francia  had  offered  their  grace  and  tender- 
ness to  the  eyes  of  the  Bolognese  for  some  sixty  years. 


THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN  121 

San  Petronio  was  being  covered  with  reliefs,  sumptu- 
ous buildings  were  rising,  beauty  was  radiant  every- 
where in  the  city,  and  art  was  supreme.  The  master 
of  the  awl  was  not  insensible  to  these  sights ;  like  a  good 
Italian,  he  knew  the  merit  of  the  masterpieces  about 
him  and  enjoyed  them.  He  knew  also  that  if  the  trade 
of  artist  does  not  enrich  a  man,  it  ennobles  his  mind 
and  makes  him  live  honourably,  if  he  is  not  a  villain, 
and  his  son  was  a  good  boy.  Nor  was  the  shoemaker 
ignorant  of  the  futility  of  opposition,  knowing  that 
while  by  some  work  is  chosen,  others  have  work  that  im- 
poses itself — that  which  is  called  a  vocation  and  which 
it  is  useless  to  resist.  So,  Domenico  was  allowed  his 
heart's  desire  and  entered  the  school  of  Denis  Cal- 
vaert,  an  able  and  successful  Antwerp  painter  settled 
at  Bologna.  Domenico  was  small,  thin,  and  ugly, 
and  his  comrades,  making  fun  of  his  misfortune, 
called  him  Domenichino,  "little  Dominick."  He 
was  so  excellent  and  zealous  a  student  that  he  even 
copied,  in  Calvaert's  studio,  some  of  Ludovico  Car- 
racci's  drawings.  Now  Ludovico  Carracci  had  a 
rival  school,  and  Calvaert,  angry  at  such  ingratitude, 
sent  Domenico  away — to  be  welcomed  with  open 
arms,  naturally,  in  Carracci 's  studio.  It  was  there 
that  young  Zampieri  won  the  life-long  friendship  of 
Francesco  Albani.  In  Carracci's  school,  Domenico 
continued  to  work  with  uneasy  conscientiousness. 
He  went  over  his  drawings  twenty  times,  never  satis- 
fied with  them,  and  within  a  few  months  he  became 
first  among  his  comrades.  Three  times  running  his 
"exact  and  expressive  drawing"  took  the  prize  offered 


122  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


every  three  months  by  Carracci  to  stimulate  his  pupils. 
As  a  reward,  his  father  gave  him  permission  to  accom- 
pany Albani  on  a  visit  to  Parma  and  Modena.  On 
that  journey  he  saw  Correggio's  Assumption. 

Albani,  having  no  more  to  learn,  soon  left  Bologna 
for  Rome  in  search  of  work.  As  soon  as  he  was  settled 
he  sent  for  his  friend,  promising  him  a  career,  and 
Ludovico  Carracci,  favouring  Domenico's  going,  sent 
him  to  his  nephew  Annibale.  Trembling  with  hope 
and  happiness,  Domenico  found  Albani  waiting  to 
share  his  lodging  with  him ;  and  there  he  lived  for  two 
years  before  setting  up  for  himself.  Annibale  Carracci 
welcomed  his  uncle's  pupil,  and,  as  a  first  lift,  took 
him  as  an  assistant  in  the  Farnese  Palace  where  he 
was  about  to  paint  the  famous  ceiling  under  which 
today  are  heard  the  concerts  of  the  Ambassador  of 
France.  Domenico  sang  of  his  hopes  as  he  ground 
the  colours  and  prepared  the  tempera.  The  echoes 
of  Mozart  must  often  awaken  his  voice  among  the 
clouds;  they  should  love  those  processions  in  which 
Domenico, — a  good  musician,  too, — drew,  as  he  sang, 
the  joyous  lines  for  his  master. 

Annibale  Carracci  appreciated  Domenico's  zeal, 
his  conscientiousness,  his  scrupulous  drawing,  his 
clever  and  vital  colouring,  his  truth.  Nor  can  we 
doubt  that  the  master  was  touched  at  finding  that 
his  young  helper  did  not  forget  what  he  had  learned 
from  the  Correggio  at  Parma.  Aided  by  his  master 
and  by  Albani,  Domenico  was  not  long  in  securing 
work  of  his  own.  He  came  to  Rome  in  1604.  Ten 
years  later,  he  had  painted  the  frescoes  of  San  Pietro 


THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN  123 

in  Vincoli,  those  of  San  Onofrio,  of  Grotta  Ferrata,  and 
at  length  his  celebrated  canvas  in  the  Vatican,  the 
Communion  of  Saint  Jerome.  These  works  were  or- 
dered and  paid  for  by  the  Cardinals  Borghese,  Agucci, 
and  Aldobrandini,  and  so  Domenico  at  but  twenty- 
four  years  of  age,  could  write  to  the  little  Bolognese 
shoemaker  that  he  had  justified  the  paternal  confid- 
ence; and  the  father  saw  a  smiling  future  before  his 
ill-formed  son. 

Poor  Domenichino  was  too  devoted  to  his  work  to 
look  ahead.  The  ugliness  of  his  thin  body  made  him 
sullen,  and,  with  the  exception  of  his  friend,  Albani, 
he  saw  little  of  his  fellow- workers.  What  great  artist 
can  find  time  for  social  life?  When  he  was  not  occu- 
pied on  his  scaffolding  he  used  to  go  about  the  streets 
taking  notes,  for  the  hobby  of  this  young  painter  was 
truth;  he  would  draw  nothing  in  his  pictures  that 
he  had  not  seen  in  nature.  It  was  part  of  his  day's 
work  to  see  for  himself  by  what  attitudes  and  expres- 
sions of  face  the  human  sentiments  within  were  mani- 
fest before  he  attempted  to  portray  them.  The 
Fathers  of  San  Andrea  della  Valle  once  reproached 
him  for  having  done  no  work  on  their  cupola  for 
an  entire  month.  "I  have  been  working  for  you  all 
the  time,"  he  said,  "although  you  have  not  seen  me, 
for  I  have  been  painting  more  with  my  mind  than  with 
the  brush."  One  day  Annibale  Carracci  surprised 
him  striding  up  and  down  his  room  with  a  furious  and 
threatening  air.  "At  this  moment  I  am  studying 
the  soldier  who  threatened  Saint  Andrew,"  he  ex- 
plained. "At  this  moment  I  learn  much  of  you," 


124  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Annibale  answered.  Domenico  visited  the  palaces 
and  galleries  scrupulously,  looking  at  everything  and 
saying,  "There  is  not  a  picture  that  has  not  something 
good  in  it." 

Such  a  painter  could  not  be  tolerated  long  in  Rome, 
at  that  epoch  invaded  by  the  coterie  of  Raphael's 
unworthy  students,  the  scum  left  by  Giulio  Romano. 
Palaces  and  churches  called  for  painters  by  the  score 
and  those  who  responded,  led  by  Lanfranchi,  formed 
a  solid  phalanx,  determined  to  divide  the  spoils 
amongst  themselves  and  keep  out  everyone  else.  Do- 
menico's  mistake  was  not  to  join  these  industrial  ranks, 
but  he  was  always  timid,  too  conscious  of  his  physical 
disadvantages ;  besides,  he  was  such  a  worker !  Fancy, 
in  our  own  day,  a  young  artist  who  wished  to  obtain 
and  did  obtain  orders  from  the  State  without  pulling 
any  wires  in  official  lobbies,  making  no  effort  to  ingra- 
tiate himself  with  the  Art  Committees,  not  even  en- 
tering competitions.  To  be  sure,  he  would  not  now 
be  poisoned,  like  Domenico,  as  the  last  resort  of  his 
enemies,  but  his  life  would  be  made  hard.  At  every 
order  Zampieri  received,  the  anger  grew  more  bitter 
against  that  dwarfish,  misshapen  stranger  in  Rome,  so 
proud  in  spite  of  his  defects,  sly,  and  without  talent, 
too!  Domenico's  masterpiece,  the  Communion  of 
Saint  Jerome  fired  the  fuse  and  the  explosion  followed. 
As  Carracci  and  Albani  upheld  their  friend,  Guido 
Reni  conceived  the  plan  of  diminishing  the  rival  by 
exalting  the  friends  with  the  result  that  Domenico's 
protectors  set  him  up  against  Reni.  That  was  too 
much !  Lanfranchi  and  his  crew  swore  the  destruction 


Anderson 

The  Communion  of  Saint  Jerome,  by  Domenichino,  Vatican 


THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN  125 

of  Domenichino  until  Rome  echoed  with  their  impre- 
cations. They  told  Agostino  Carracci,  who  also  had 
painted  a  Saint  Jerome,  that  Zampieri  had  stolen  from 
him  outrageously.  They  shouted  from  the  house- 
tops that  one  had  but  to  look  at  the  Saint  Andrew 
of  San  Gregorio,  to  see  that  that  was  all  taken  from 
Raphael,  from  the  Heliodora  and  the  Mass  of  Bolsena, 
from  the  Lystra  and  Ananias  of  the  Loggias  in  the 
Vatican.  And,  in  order  to  stir  up  the  Carracci,  they 
said:  "Now  look  at  the  forms,  see  how  alike  they  are, 
instead  of  differentiated  as  they  should  be.  It  is  all 
the  Bolognese  school.  Besides,  Domenichino  steals 
from  everyone.  Doesn't  he  pride  himself  on  it?" 

Domenico  took  no  notice  of  the  storm,  His  only 
answer  to  his  enemies  was  to  paint  the  frescoes  in  San 
Luigi  dei  Francesi,  the  history  of  Saint  Cecilia  and, 
supreme  affront,  the  glorious  Diana  of  the  Villa  Bor- 
ghese.  That  was  the  last  straw.  The  storm  grew 
so  thick  that  Domenico  had  to  go  away.  The  tri- 
umph of  the  cabal  was  short,  however,  for  two  years 
later  Zampieri  returned,  bringing  with  him  a  wife, 
which  made  matters  worse,  a  radiant  Bologna  woman, 
and  their  child,  a  little  girl,  in  whose  arms  he  was  to 
die — vanquished.  He  came  back  in  triumph,  recalled 
by  the  Pope  as  architect  of  the  Vatican.  The  cabal, 
paralysed  for  a  moment,  broke  out  again  when  the 
frescoes  of  the  Valle  were  uncovered.  "What,  nudes 
in  a  church!"  "Oh,  Correggio,"  cried  Domenico, 
"don't  they  know  your  Assumption  ?  "  "For  heaven's 
sake,  you  have  stolen  from  Correggio,  your  angels  are 
his!"  was  the  quick  answer;  "and  your  apostles  are 


126  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Michelangelo's !  Such  impieties  should  be  destroyed." 
"Or  at  least  retouched,"  added  Lanfranchi,  always 
practical. 

Domenico  kept  command  of  himself,  aided,  from 
the  year  1 624  onward,  by  a  friendship  which  must  be 
gratifying  to  every  whole-hearted  Frenchman.  Pous- 
sin,  then  a  newcomer,  asked  nothing  of  Rome  but 
to  see  and  study  her  masterpieces.  He  threw  his 
prestige  into  the  fray,  declaring  "Domenico  is  the 
first  after  Raphael!"  The  threat  to  retouch  his 
frescoes  of  the  Valle  cut  Domenico  to  the  heart,  and, 
notwithstanding  the  warning  of  his  friend,  the  Cava- 
liere  d'Arpino  and  of  Guido  Reni,  he  left  Rome  for 
Naples  in  1 629,  accepting  the  commission  to  finish  the 
Chapel  of  Saint  Januarius.  Naples  was  even  more 
the  domain  of  the  Ribiera  set  than  was  Rome  the 
spoil  of  the  Lanfranchi  party,  and  to  make  sure  of 
their  enmity,  Lanfranchi  followed  Domenico  to  set 
them  up  against  him,  succeeding  to  such  an  extent 
that  Domenico  kept  his  dagger  beside  him  as  he 
painted.  If  we  could  imagine  Chavannes  obliged  to 
have  his  revolver  in  his  pocket  when  he  worked  in 
the  Pantheon,  we  might  form  an  idea  of  what  poor 
Domenichino  suffered.  What  he  painted  by  day 
was  often  wiped  out  at  night.  His  tempera  was 
mixed  with  ashes  which  cracked  the  painting  when 
dry.  At  length  a  plot  was  hatched  when  the  people 
of  the  city  were  agitated  by  an  eruption  of  Vesuvius 
and  ran  to  Saint  Januarius  for  protection.  "Let  us 
uncover  the  paintings,"  cried  Lanfranchi,  "to  please 
the  saint  and  make  him  feel  like  protecting  us."  The 


THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN  127 

effect  of  the  sight  of  those  unfinished,  cracked  paint- 
ings was  just  what  Lanfranchi  expected  it  to  be. 
Something  like  a  riot  broke  out.  Domenico  was 
obliged  to  flee  for  his  life,  leaving  his  beloved  daughter 
to  the  care  of  his  brothers-in-law  who  were  of  the 
cabal,  and  of  his  wife,  who  had  been  drawn  into  it, 
too,  no  doubt,  through  her  desire  to  return  to  Rome 
or  to  Bologna,  or  her  weariness  of  all  the  dangers  in 
which  they  lived.  A  year  later  he  returned,  and  then 
he  was  poisoned. 

Before  his  death  he  said  to  his  faithful  friend  Albani : 
"My  enemies  are  those  nearest  me,  and  those  who 
make  war  on  me  are  the  very  ones  who  should  defend 
me.  My  daughter  is  my  only  consolation,  since  I 
have  lost  my  two  sons;  and  they  watch  over  her  on 
account  of  the  little  property  that  I  shall  leave  her." 
The  good  Domenico's  life  ended  as  he  was  blessing 
Providence  which  had  punished  him  for  his  sins. 

His  sin  was  unpardonable.  In  that  time  of  indus- 
trial painting,  of  fierce  exploitation  of  the  bad  public 
taste,  of  processes  and  skill  of  hand,  he  had  the  auda- 
city to  be  simple,  sincere,  original,  that  is  to  say  to 
be  himself  as  much  as  he  could  be,  conscientious, 
natural,  attentive,  scrupulous;  in  a  word,  an  artist. 
He  did  no  canvassing,  was  contented  to  earn  his 
living.  He  did  not  join  any  group,  was  sufficient  to 
himself.  He  sought  no  honour,  no  title,  depending 
entirely  upon  his  work  to  make  his  fame.  Instead 
of  spying  upon  what  others  were  doing  or  depending 
upon  his  cartoons,  he  looked  at  nature  for  his  back- 
grounds and  studied  men  for  the  details  of  his  figures. 


128  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Wherever  a  suggestion  of  some  master  is  found  in  his 
work,  we  may  be  sure  that  it  is  no  copy,  but  an  inter- 
pretation. His  angels  in  the  Valle  are  reminiscences 
of  Correggio's  incontestably,  and  his  apostles  recall 
the  Sistine,  but  Correggio  was  the  master  of  his  youth, 
he  who  revealed  the  great  art  to  little  Domenichino. 
The  impression  received  at  Parma  was  never  lost. 
It  was  to  Correggio  that  Zampieri  owed  his  fine  chiaro- 
oscuro.  As  for  stealing  from  Michelangelo,  it  was  indeed 
an  impertinence  for  a  painter  to  do  work  suggestive  of 
that  master  in  the  generation  which  produced  Bernini. 
Domenico  drew  from  Michelangelo  what  he  has  to 
give  of  good,  solid,  healthy  art,  whereas  the  pupils 
of  Giulio  Romano  took  from  him  only  lessons  in 
extravagance  and  want  of  balance.  Among  all  the 
colour  merchants  of  his  day,  Domenico  alone  was  a 
painter — simple,  loving  form,  not  anxious  for  popular- 
ity, but  to  succeed,  working  for  his  own  satisfaction, 
not  for  the  approbation  of  others.  "I  work  for  my- 
self and  for  the  perfection  of  art,"  he  said.  His  ene- 
mies called  him  the  "Ox,"  and  he  was  proud  of  that, 
always  at  his  post,  never  tiring  in  doing  good  work. 
Thus  led  on  by  an  honest  soul,  sustained  by  talent, 
he  accomplished  remarkable  works,  lacking  only  a 
little  audacity,  perhaps,  to  make  them  very  beautiful. 
His  timidity  paralysed  him  to  some  extent,  as  did  also 
his  too  ardent  aspiration  after  perfection.  His  Eve 
in  the  Rospigliosi  Palace  is  overcharged;  he  wanted 
to  put  too  much  in  it.  In  the  Barberini,  his  Adam 
and  Eve  are  magnificent  in  amplitude  and  in  pictorial 
firmness.  The  Triumph  of  David  is  a  wonder  of  joy, 


THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN  129 

the  women  playing  divers  instruments  in  simplicity 
and  in  truth.  At  the  Valle,  in  the  pendentives  and 
the  cupola,  the  grace  of  his  figures  is  always  admirable; 
there  is  pathos  also,  and,  above  all,  that  unexpected 
something  in  the  poses  which  arouses  the  admiration 
at  a  bound  because  nature  is  there,  warm,  surprised 
in  a  swift  movement,  seen  in  a  flash  and  seized  by  the 
artist.  Poussin  considered  him  as  faultless  a  drafts- 
man as  Raphael.  Critics  have  recognized  Correggio's 
poses  in  his  figures :  that  is  to  say,  they  are  charming ; 
and  they  must  attribute  to  him  the  delicacy  of  Guido 
Reni  and  the  strength  of  Guercino  in  his  colouring. 
As  architect,  at  least,  he  is  himself.  San  Ignazio, 
built  after  his  plans,  shows  a  knowledge  of  architecture 
of  which  Poussin  profited.  At  San  Onofrio,  it  is 
worth  while  noticing  how  he  used  Michelangelo's 
methods  to  produce  the  illusion  of  columns  and  en- 
tablatures and  to  employ  figures  as  supports  and  crown- 
ing pieces.  Of  his  paintings  the  Saint  Jerome  of 
the  Vatican  is  the  most  accomplished ;  in  that  there  is 
science,  emotion,  truth,  warmth,  strength, and  breadth. 
The  woman  on  her  knees  holding  the  Holy  Book  is  a 
piece  before  which  all  the  world  must  stop,  touched 
with  emotion.  The  groups  are  arranged  with  consum- 
mate ability,  each  for  its  own  value  and  for  the  value 
of  the  others.  The  religious  abandon  of  the  wrinkled 
old  man  is  sublime.  At  San  Gregorio  we  see  how  well 
Domenico  knew  how  to  be  dramatic.  The  Martyr- 
dom of  Saint  Andrew  is  alive,  the  scene  in  action. 
The  famous  soldier  that  he  studied  by  impersonating 
him  to  himself  is  wonderfully  lifelike.  The  crowd 


130  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

shows  his  memories  of  Raphael,  yet  it  is  Domenico's 
crowd,  nevertheless.  Let  us  linger  over  the  Saint 
Sebastian  in  Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli  which  is  of  the 
same  order,  although,  as  in  the  Eve  of  the  Rospigliosi 
Palace,  Domenico  was  a  little  anxious  to  put  in  too 
much,  his  mind  was  full  of  men's  looks  and  gestures ! 
One  day  he  saw  a  woman  knocked  down  and  stepped 
on  by  horses.  He  was  filled  with  her  terror.  He  saw 
another,  at  the  market,  looking  for  her  wares  in  her 
basket;  that  is  the  woman  selecting  her  arrows  in 
Saint  Sebastian.  Another  was  throwing  herself  after 
her  child  who  was  in  danger;  we  see  her  here,  too, 
running.  Above  are  Correggio's  angels,  but  with  a 
heavier  and  more  noble  movement  than  those  of  the 
Sistine.  The  effect  is  full,  complete,  an  avalanche  of 
bodies  and  draperies  in  the  greatest  possible  variety 
of  forms  and  arrangements. 

Shall  I  admit  that  I  find  that  all  this  makes  the  Saint 
Sebastian  a  trifle  violent,  theatrical?  I  care  for  it 
less  than  for  the  frescoes  of  Saint  Cecilia  in  San  Luigi 
dei  Francesi  and  of  Saint  Nilus  in  the  Grotta  Ferrata. 
These  are  of  the  work  done  in  his  first  years  in  Rome. 
They  bear  a  light  reflection  from  the  ceiling  of  the 
Farnese  Palace  and  they  are  exquisite.  The  proces- 
sion of  the  emperor  and  the  saint  are  the  compositions 
of  a  master  hand,  young  as  it  was,  and  show  a  cer- 
tain calm,  a  tranquil  majesty  that  the  bad  taste  of 
the  century  made  almost  impossible  later  on.  The 
young  man  in  the  green  tunic  is  Domenico,  it  is  said. 
He  was  not  so  ugly  after  all,  if  his  portrait  is  a  sincere 
one,  and  sincere  he  must  have  been,  lacking  imagina- 


THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN  131 

tion.  As  for  his  Saint  Cecilia  see  the  difference  be- 
tween her  and  the  frescoes  of  her  by  Calabrese  in 
the  Valle.  The  tenderness  of  Cecilia  distributing  her 
alms,  the  piety  of  the  beggars,  the  pope  bestowing 
his  blessing  are  things  seen  by  the  eye  of  a  painter  who 
knew  how  to  look.  Not  the  least  trickery;  he  was 
incapable  of  it.  He  drew  his  inspiration  from  the 
world  in  which  he  lived,  and  in  his  day  to  do  that  was 
the  miracle  of  his  genius. 

Let  us  study  him,  then  let  us  be  indulgent,  even 
partial  in  his  favour.  To  us,  Frenchmen,  he  stands 
beside  our  Poussin,  representative  of  art,  pure,  and 
without  compromise.  In  Italy  he  alone  keeps  aloft 
the  banner  in  his  century.  Without  him  it  would 
have  fallen;  the  Lanfranchis  would  have  triumphed 
absolutely.  There  are  Domenichinos  in  all  times; 
in  our  own  day,  also;  and  some  of  them  fall  by  the 
way,  but  their  work  lives,  and  it  is,  thanks  to  them, 
despised,  mocked,  hounded,  even  martyrized  though 
they  may  be,  that  painting  lives  shining  through  the 
very  shadows  of  death. 


EleventH  Day 

CHURCH  DRAWING-ROOMS 

TKe  Esqvriline 

VER  since  I  have  been  in  Rome  I  have 
remarked  how  many  Christian  monu- 
ments are  not  only  inferior  to  those 
of  pagan  times,  but  insignificant,  even 
shocking,  considered  from  the  point 
of  view  of  their  own  scope  and  purpose.  That  is 
why  so  many  people  speak  of  having  been  "disil- 

132 


CHURCH  DRAWING-ROOMS  133 

lusioned"  by  their  first  visits  to  Rome.  Any  one 
who  comes  here  after  ever  so  slight  an  acquaint- 
ance with  Milan,  Venice,  Florence,  Perugia,  or  Siena 
cannot  be  other  than  disappointed.  Rome  has  not 
a  church  that,  considering  its  history,  its  celebrity, 
or  its  dimensions,  is  satisfactory  to  the  taste  of 
our  day.  The  only  ones  that  we  find  charming  are 
the  modest  ones,  and  perhaps  their  modesty  alone 
is  the  main  factor  in  our  pleasure  in  them,  especi- 
ally if  our  vanity  is  tickled  by  the  thought  that 
we  have  "discovered"  them  for  ourselves.  On 
the  contrary,  the  imposing  ones,  that  one  must  see 
to  say  that  one  has  seen  them,  fill  us  with  disap- 
pointment and  indifference.  Their  architecture  is 
wholly  of  the  Baroque  style,  child  of  Bernini  and  the 
Jesuitical  decadence.  At  Modena  and  at  Parma  I  had 
occasion  to  analyse  that  art.1  I  found  it  false,  con- 
trary to  all  reason,  and  a  mixture  of  all  genres,  giving 
but  one  lesson  to  posterity:  the  beauty  of  space.  At 
Rome,  with  a  few  exceptions,  we  do  not  find  even  that. 
The  fact  is  that,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  there 
was  but  little  building ;  the  main  interest  was  in  rebuild- 
ing, in  encrusting  old  carcasses  with  new  decorations. 
As  it  was  not  possible  to  set  back  the  walls,  the  Roman 
architecture  of  that  century  necessarily  had  all  the 
faults  of  the  Baroque  without  its  one  redeeming 
quality.  As  for  the  decorations,  frescoes  and  other, 
as  Burckhardt  says,  "it  is  only  necessary  to  see  them 
to  forget  them  at  once." 

The  regal  luxury  of  the  popes  had  invaded  Rome. 

1  Little  Cities  of  Italy,  vol.  ii. 


134  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Naturally,  the  city  was  the  prey  of  the  princely 
families  who  could  not  do  other  than  make  a  magnifi- 
cent appearance.  In  the  course  of  fifteen  years  the 
Farnese  and  the  Borghese  amassed  scandalous  for- 
tunes, nor  could  any  one  prevent  them  from  doing  so. 
God  was  apportioned  a  few  crumbs,  and  the  people, 
lost  in  admiration  of  the  nephew,  did  not  notice  the 
avarice  of  the  brother  or  of  the  uncle  himself.  Did 
not  the  churches  belong  to  the  people?  They  were 
flattered  to  have  such  beautiful  places  in  which  to 
be  at  home.  The  more  gold  there  was,  the  more  the 
prince  was  at  ease.  Piety  covered  every  sin  and 
yielded  a  profit.  Roman  society  reached  the  dizzy 
zenith  of  sumptuosity;  nothing  would  ever  again 
be  so  beautiful — that  is,  richer!  One  must  have  and 
do  in  profusion,  must  accumulate,  must  amass. 
From  this  point  of  view,  it  is  worth  while  to  give  careful 
attention  to  Santa  Maria  della  Vittoria,  usually 
visited  solely  for  Bernini's  Saint  Theresa.  That 
church  is  the  masterpiece  of  the  Baroque  in  Rome, 
that  Baroque  seen  everywhere:  at  San  Carlo,  at  San 
Ignazio,  at  the  Gesu,  at  the  Valle,  at  Santa  Agnese, 
and  at  so  many  other  edifying  specimens  of  their  age. 
There  is  a  certain  utility  in  seeing  them,  as  we  shall  do 
in  the  mere  course  of  the  daily  walks,  as,  indeed,  we 
have  done  in  our  pursuit  of  Domenico  Zampieri. 
Let  us  take  note  of  what  the  Baroque  did  in  two 
quarters  of  the  city,  at  any  rate  quarters  where  the 
first  Christians  lodged  and  which  still  bear  the  names 
of  two  of  the  original  seven  hills:  the  Cselius  whose 
centre  is  the  Lateran  where  Constantine  sheltered  the 


CHURCH  DRA  WING-ROOMS  135 

Church ;  the  Esquiline  on  which  Santa  Maria  Maggiore 
was  built  in  the  midst  of  that  part  of  Rome  where 
Saint  Peter's  flock  hid  from  the  powerful  enemies  of 
the  new  religion  of  Jesus.  Another  day  we  shall  see 
the  Cselius.  Today  we  give  to  the  Esquiline,  the 
nest  wherein  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  was 
hatched  and  from  which  it  took  its  flight.  Let  us 
see  if  under  the  Baroque  restorations,  the  Catholic 
triumph,  we  can  find  traces  of  the  community  of 
early  Christians  and  their  primitive  art.  They  will 
give  us  the  best  and  the  quickest  lesson  in  history  we 
could  have. 

A  tram-car  carries  us,  through  beautiful,  modern 
streets,  to  the  Esquiline.  The  Via  Agostino  Depretis 
has  been  cut  across  the  Viminal,  the  most  thoroughly 
levelled  of  all  the  seven  hills  and  unrecognizable,  at 
least,  until  the  end  where  the  street  makes  a  rapid 
descent  toward  a  narrow  hollow,  where  a  brook  used 
to  flow,  and  just  before  it  begins  to  mount  the  Esqui- 
line. In  this  hollow  between  the  Viminal  and  the 
Esquiline,  it  is  said,  Saint  Peter  lived,  in  the  house 
of  a  certain  Pudens  whom  the  Church  has  sanctified. 
If  I  had  not  long  ago  resolved  to  believe  in  all  the 
legends  that  I  like,  how  careful  I  should  have  to  be! 
I  am  very  much  afraid  of  serious  people  so  it  is  better 
to  notify  them  at  once  that  I  should  be  quite  as  upset 
if  I  had  to  drive  Saint  Peter  away  from  Pudens'  house 
as  to  do  without  the  wolf  on  the  Palatine. 

Santa  Pudenziana  passes  for  the  most  ancient 
church  in  Rome.  It  was  restored  by  Saint  Siricius 
who  was  Pope  in  the  time  of  the  Emperor  Theodosius 


I36  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

at  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century. T  Santa  Puden- 
ziana  having  been  brought  up  to  date  in  the  sixteenth 
century  under  Sixtus  V.,  and  frequently  aggravated 
since,  the  present  exterior  retains  nothing  of  its  two 
early  phases  but  a  charming  Renaissance  doorway 
with  slender  columns,  suggestive  of  the  Lombard  art 
whose  models  are  among  the  joys  of  Milan  and 
Piacenza.  The  fine,  light  campanile  is  of  the  ninth 
century.  But  doorway  and  tower  are  crushed  by 
a  great  mosaic  which  shines  sumptuously  in  the  sun, 
unpleasant  in  its  modernity,  like  everything  that 
is  laboriously  archaic.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
mosaics  of  the  apse  are  admirable.  Their  nearness 
to  the  portal,  ruined  by  those  others,  makes  me  feel 
what  I  have  already  felt  at  Orvieto,  and  at  Ravenna, 
without  being  able  to  formulate  the  impression:  that 
mosaic  is  essentially  an  interior  decoration.  If  you 
have  not  seen  Orvieto  or  Ravenna,  think  of  Venice. 
What  a  difference  merely  between  the  mosaics  of  the 
tympanums  and  the  porches  of  Saint  Mark's;  and 
how  much  greater  the  impression  made  by  those  of 
the  interior!  Even  if  the  mosaics  of  Santa  Puden- 
ziana  were  not  among  the  most  ancient  in  Rome,  they 
would  be  worthy  of  attention.  The  figures  are  less 

1  Pope,  or  Bishop  of  Rome.  According  to  A.  J.  C.  Hare,  the 
title  of  Papa,  originally  belonging  to  all  masters,  was  first  applied 
to  Saint  Marcellus  in  the  letter  of  a  deacon,  but  the  title  was  not 
formally  given  to  the  Bishop  of  Rome  until  the  year  400,  Anas- 
tasius  I.  being  Pope  and  Theodosius's  successor,  the  forgotten 
Honorius,  Emperor.  For  another  one  hundred  and  thirty  years 
— until  John  II. — the  Church  continued  to  rank  the  occupants 
of  Peter's  chair  among  the  saints. — H.  G. 


CHURCH  DRAWING-ROOMS  137 

gigantic  than  those  in  San  Cosmo  and  Damiano  in  the 
Forum,  but  they  are  quite  as  noble  and  impressive, 
not  because  of  any  sentiment  that  they  express,  but 
in  their  brilliancy,  their  rude  design,  and  the  surprising 
artistic  effect  of  which  they,  and  their  sisters  at  Milan, 
Ravenna,  and  Rome,  alone,  can  speak  to  us.  This 
was  the  splendour  that  Galla  Placidia  wished  to  find 
if  ever  she  should  return  to  her  Ravenna:  the  splen- 
dour of  her  mausoleum  is  of  just  this  beauty. 

On  the  other  side  of  Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  in  a 
little  street,  almost  hidden  by  hovels,  crouches  Santa 
Prassede,  built  soon  after  Santa  Pudenziana.  Pudens 
had  two  daughters,  Pudentiana  and  Praxedis.  The 
church  of  the  younger  daughter  has  had  better  fortune 
than  that  of  the  father  and  elder  daughter,  inasmuch 
as  it  has  been  less  restored,  although  it  has  been 
retouched  the  more  often  of  the  two.  Done  over 
by  the  Renaissance,  it  was  disdained  by  the  Baroque, 
the  hovels  fastened  upon  it,  in  preventing  it  from 
showing  off,  insured  to  it  a  certain  protection.  The 
interior,  however,  was  unhappily  enlivened  by  being 
repainted  sometime  in  the  nineteenth  century,  but 
traces  of  the  first  restoration  remain  in  Ionic  columns, 
pillars  redressed  with  marble  slabs,  and  an  honest 
ceiling  with  large  compartments. 

Santa  Pudenziana  possesses  the  table  before  which 
Saint  Peter  said  Mass.  Prassede,  always  the  younger 
sister,  can  only  show  the  stone  on  which  he  slept.  She 
also  shows  a  well  with  a  marble  curb  and  some  sar- 
cophagi to  which  beautiful  legends  are  attached. 
Are  they  the  legends  told  by  the  double  mosaics  of  the 


138  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

choir  as  well  as  by  those  of  the  triumphal  arch  and 
the  apse?  I  see  in  them  Christ  and  his  flock,  also 
the  Church  triumphant  in  the  person  of  her  popes 
and  her  illustrious  saints.  The  beginning  of  glory  is 
already  here.  We  are  in  the  ninth  century.  The 
Church  has  just  received  a  beautiful  domain  from  the 
hands  of  Charlemagne.  Even  now  she  has  begun  to 
wish  to  shine  in  the  world;  it  is  not  enough  to  put 
the  mosaics  in  the  dark  rounds  of  the  vaulting  of 
the  apse,  they  must  also  cover  plain  surfaces  in  full 
view;  proprietors  must  show  their  wealth.  Nicholas 
V.  was  to  complete  the  toilet  of  Santa  Prassede 
when  the  papacy  returned  from  Constance  in  triumph. 

It  seems,  however,  that  none  of  them  touched  the 
chapel  of  Saint  Zeno  for  which  alone  it  is  worth  while 
to  enter  this  church.  You  remember  the  effect  upon 
you  of  the  mosaics  in  the  mausoleum  of  Galla  Placidia 
where  you  entered  feeling  your  way  in  the  dark  and 
went  out  blinded  with  light?1  That  effect  is  repro- 
duced here.  This  cave  is  entirely  covered  with 
mosaics  from  top  to  bottom.  At  the  end  of  a  few 
minutes  one  is  splashed  with  light.  It  is  a  divine 
spectacle,  amusing,  too,  and  endless:  the  more  one 
looks  the  more  one  discovers  new  effects,  the  more  one 
is  submerged  by  incandescent  waves.  Every  moment 
one  is  surprised  by  a  new  gleam  leaping  out  of  a  corner 
up  to  that  instant  as  black  as  night.  It  seems  as  if  a 
brazier  were  behind  the  walls,  gradually  consuming 
the  stones,  its  flames  creeping  through  the  interstices, 
ready  to  break  through  and  devour  me  if  I  do  not  flee 

1  Little  Cities  of  Italy,  vol.  ii. 


CHURCH  DRA  WING-ROOMS  139 

them  at  once.  For  a  thousand  years  these  flames 
have  caressed  the  column  that  stands  in  the  depths 
of  this  cave,  the  column  was  brought  here  from  Jeru- 
salem (with  the  holy  stair,  no  doubt),  and  by  a  cru- 
sader who  received  from  it  the  name, — kept  illustrious 
by  his  descendants, — of  Colonna,  because  this  was 
the  column  to  which  Jesus  was  tied  to  receive  the 
scourge. 

On  the  neighbouring  square  a  beautiful  palace 
extends  its  wings,  each  one  topped  by  a  dome,  flanking 
on  the  east  a  loggia  of  two  storeys,  on  the  west  a 
rotunda.  It  is  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  Maggiore. 
Within,  the  nave  is  divided  by  two  rows  of  Ionic 
columns  surmounted  by  a  wall  pierced  by  windows 
and  with  a  level  ceiling.  At  the  end  is  a  large  apse 
decorated  with  mosaics  of  the  fifth  century.  "The 
nave,"  said  our  dear  President  de  Brosses,  "is  al- 
together imposing;  the  rest  seems  to  be  rubbish." 
"It  is  a  drawing-room — c'est  un  salon — "  said  Stend- 
hal. Both  were  right.  The  President  was  struck 
by  the  noble  nave  with  its  antique  columns,  from  the 
Temple  of  Juno,  on  the  Aventine.  no  doubt,  built  to 
shelter  the  statue  of  the  goddess  taken  to  Veii  by 
Marcus  Furius  Camillus.  Before  moving  it  to  Rome 
the  soldiers  asked  the  statue's  consent.  It  answered, 
"I  wish  it  much."  I  wonder  if  they  made  the  same 
enquiry  of  the  columns?  Anyway,  here  they  are, 
Juno's  columns,  and  to  them  alone  the  nave  owes 
the  august  appearance  noted  by  the  President.  It  is 
around  their  nave  that  Stendhal's  salon  has  been 
arranged.  Nothing  shows  better  than  this  building 


140  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

the  progress,  the  ambitions,  and  the  ideal  of  the 
Church. 

At  first  it  was  a  solemn  and  pious  temple  of  the 
fifth  century,  raised  in  commemoration  of  a  miracle. 
In  the  time  of  Sixtus  III.  it  was  rebuilt  and  decorated 
with  mosaics,  the  first  step  in  the  development  of 
restoration,  already  noted  at  Santa  Pudenziana  and 
at  Santa  Prassede,  and  in  the  twelfth  century,  when 
the  papacy  had  so  many  times  proved  its  strength  in 
tussles  with  the  emperors,  it  could  plume  itself  upon 
its  victories  by  way  of  enlivening  this  august  and, 
even  then,  ancient  church.  A  portico  was  put  on  and 
a  tower  raised,  all  rather  haphazard,  with  no  sense 
of  harmony,  as  was  all  architecture  of  that  time. 
Then,  as  the  papacy  grew  stronger,  and  arranged  its 
affairs  with  more  system,  taking  place  among  the 
States  of  Europe,  the  lines  of  the  church,  too,  were 
straightened,  the  walls  braced  by  two  great  wings, 
and  Santa  Maria  Maggiore  became  a  grand  palace  of 
the  seventeenth  century  under  the  level  and  square 
of  Fuga  and  of  Fontana.  Oh,  yes,  you  may  pray  to 
God  in  it,  but  keeping  your  distance;  you  do  not 
forget  that  you  must  be  a  personage  of  importance 
to  be  in  such  a  place,  like  a  lord  at  home  in  his 
palace,  perhaps  somewhat  overawed  by  his  own  salon. 

Those  who  remodelled  Santa  Maria  Maggiore, 
however,  were  not  able  to  suppress  the  ancient  ba- 
silica. We  know  that  the  Baroque  was  nothing  if 
not  a  meddler  with  the  antique.  Was  it  not  its 
custom  to  furnish  its  galleries  with  exhumed  statues, 
columns  also,  treating  them  as  works  of  art  and 


Detail  of  Moses,  by  Michael  Angelo,  St.  Pietro  in  Vincoli 


Anderson 


Santa  Maggiore 


Anderson 


St.  Clement's 


CHURCH  DRA  WING-ROOMS  141 

framing  them  in  its  vermicelli  without  reason  or 
excuse?  When  the  Baroque  stands  alone,  developing 
itself  freely,  extending  its  spaces,  we  can  pardon  its 
existence;  but  when  it  pretends  to  harmonize  itself 
with  the  antique  we  revolt,  overcome  by  our  desire 
to  see  the  pure  columns  alone,  those  beautiful  columns, 
so  sweet  and  bare,  so  strong  and  magnificent.  The 
old  mosaics  of  the  entablature  and  the  apse  alone  do 
not  swear  at  them.  All  the  rest  of  the  stuff  that  has 
been  riveted  on  is  unworthy  and  scandalizes  us.  We 
need  all  Mine's  grace — and  did  not  Niccolo  Pisano  pass 
this  way  too? — to  calm  us  sufficiently  to  appreciate 
his  beautiful  bas-reliefs.  Really,  here  we  know  what 
barbarism  is.  Look  at  these  columns  and  think  that 
Christian  men  have  been  savages  enough  to  demolish 
the  temples  which  they  supported;  think  that  there 
have  been  men  so  lost  as  to  jumble  all  this  false  luxury 
about  these  exquisite,  simple  shafts!  It  is  enough 
to  make  us  hang  our  heads  for  the  race  called  human. 
All  that  the  lavishness  of  the  Sistine  and  the  Borghese 
chapels  can  do  for  us  is  merely  to  instruct  us  in  church 
history.  What  terrible  evidence  they  furnish  for  the 
condemnation  of  those  pontiffs  who  forgot  their  mis- 
sion of  charity  and  modesty!  So  that  popes  need  no 
longer  blush  for  their  standing  among  potentates 
and  powers,  God  was  reduced  to  the  rank  of  king. 
This  church  was  made  into  a  palace  suitable  for  His 
habitation.  It  must  then  have  marble  tables,  statues 
in  profusion,  and  gold — much  gold,  some  of  which 
would  stick  to  the  fingers  of  the  pope.  Yet,  smothered 
as  it  was  under  so  much  splendour,  the  old  basilica 


142  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

resisted  triumphantly.  Santa  Maria  Maggiore  is 
still  one  of  the  most  beautiful  churches  in  Rome 
because  of  the  great  nave  commanded  and  bounded 
by  Juno. 

San  Pietro  in  Vincoli  had  the  good  fortune  to  fall 
into  the  hands  of  the  Rovere,  that  is  to  say,  to  be 
done  over  in  the  time  of  the  Renaissance.  The 
Pollajuolo  brothers  are  buried  here,  and  the  authors 
of  the  tomb  of  Sixtus  IV.  would  awaken  from  their 
eternal  sleep  if  sacrilege  were  committed  in  their 
church.  In  this,  one  ancient  basilica  has  been  saved 
from  the  common  fate  by  the  memories  of  Sixtus  IV. 
and  Julius  II. :  by  the  memory  of  Michelangelo,  too. 
After  many  vicissitudes,  at  last,  cut  down  and  reduced 
to  three  statues,  the  famous  tomb  of  Julius  II.  over 
which  Michelangelo  dreamed  so  many  years,  has  run 
aground  here,  an  empty  hulk.  The  entire  world 
passes  in  procession  before  his  Moses;  I  wonder  what 
the  world  thinks  of  the  Rachel  and  Leah  who  flank 
the  terrible  prophet?  But,  most  justly,  he  absorbs 
all  interest.  No  one  but  knows  him  by  some  sort 
of  representation.  What  shall  I,  in  my  turn,  say  of 
all  his  terribleness  ?  Many  explanations  have  been 
sought  of  this  fierce  Moses,  drawing  his  threatening 
fingers  through  his  tumultuous  beard,  this  horned 
Moses — classic  horns,  it  is  true — but  strange  for  the 
sixteenth  century.  It  pleases  me  very  much  to  fancy 
that  by  this  glowering  Moses  Michelangelo  wished  to 
symbolize  the  "terrible"  pope.  Why  the  lawgiver 
of  the  Hebrews  should  have  been  selected  to  guard 
his  ashes  I  do  not  know.  It  is  probable  that  Michel- 


CHURCH  DRAWING-ROOMS  143 

angelo  did  not  go  so  far  as  to  share  the  feeling  of  the 
King  of  France  and  the  Emperor  who  called  Jules  II. 
the  "drunkard,"  V ivrogne,  but  he  must  have  cher- 
ished a  bitter  rancour  against  that  brutal,  insolent, 
and  despotic  master.  It  caused  the  great  sculptor 
no  displeasure,  I  like  to  think,  to  represent  him  as 
the  imperious  conductor  of  Israel,  and  the  nice  little 
satanic  horns,  whose  meaning  he  alone  could  inter- 
pret,— supreme  joy  of  the  artist, — how  I  relish  the 
notion  that  they  were  Michelangelo's  vengeance ! 

We  finish  our  walk  on  the  Esquiline  at  the  modest 
and  primitive  Saint  Clement's,  one  of  the  first  Christian 
monuments  turned  into  a  symbol  of  triumph.  This 
church,  at  least,  has  remained  pure.  True,  it  is 
under  ground.  If  we  should  like  to  know  how  the 
refuges  for  prayer  looked  at  the  time  when  Constan- 
tine  authorized  the  Christian  religion,  let  us  go  down 
into  San  Clemente.  It  is  built  upon  the  remains  of  a 
pagan  temple,  now  drowned,  and  the  pump  that  is 
always  going  cannot  save  the  old  church  from  the 
mud  that  is  gradually  sucking  it  under.  A  basilica 
with  nave  having  two  side  aisles  and  walls  covered 
with  frescoes,  Saint  Clement's  has  a  place  of  import- 
ance in  the  history  of  art.  M.  Emile  Bertaux  places 
these  frescoes  beside  the  frescoes  of  Southern  Italy, 
outcome  of  "the  school  of  Monte  Cassino."  Let  us 
not  lose  ourselves  in  that  marsh  of  controversy.  Let 
us  look  at  them,  not  critically,  but  trying  to  under- 
stand them.  In  the  unhealthy  flats  between  the 
Esquiline  and  the  Caslius,  where,  even  today,  the 
night  air  is  charged  with  fever,  the  little  group  of 


144  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

early  Christians,  as  soon  as  they  could  worship 
openly,  built  this  little  church  in  the  midst  of  their 
dwellings,  poor,  like  themselves.  It  is  touching,  as 
were  their  lives,  with  its  bare  little  columns  and  the 
rough  frescoes  by  which  they  tried  to  depict  the  entire 
history  of  the  new  faith :  Christ,  the  apostles,  the  holy 
popes,  in  truth  upholding  the  majesty  of  the  Church. 
Their  pictures  are  a  procession  of  the  beautiful  legends 
which  never  vary;  those  miracles  and  noble  deeds 
that  we  find  in  all  times,  in  all  religions:  the  child 
given  back  to  its  mother  upon  the  intercession  of  a 
good  and  pious  man,  the  relics  which  heal  the  sick, 
the  saint  braving  the  emperor,  the  martyr  thrown 
to  the  lions  .  .  .  and  many  others.  The  eternal 
history  of  suffering  and  sad  humanity  is  here,  but  at 
its  most  beautiful  expression  because  it  springs  from 
pure  souls,  from  the  really  humble  in  heart. 

One  day,  in  the  eleventh  century,  Robert  Guiscard 
and  his  Normans  invaded  Rome  under  the  pretext  of  de- 
fending the  pope,  and  in  that  pillage  of  the  Christians, 
Caslius  Saint  Clement's  suffered.  A  century  later, 
instead  of  being  rebuilt,  it  was  covered  with  earth, 
and  upon  the  level  ground  above  it,  the  present  high 
church  was  erected.  When  we  come  up  from  the 
muddy  depths  where  the  pumps  are  wheezing,  which, 
the  sacristan  tells  us,  will  soon  be  useless,  we  cannot 
but  linger  affectionately  and  sadly  over  the  thought  of 
the  precious  relic  sinking  out  of  sight.  I  say  affec- 
tionately for  the  narrow  little  porch,  a  shed,  like  that 
at  Foligno — it  is  instructive,  too,  to  find  the  small 
Umbrian  city  in  great  Rome — and  for  the  beautiful 


CHURCH  DRA  WING-ROOMS  145 

columns,  and  even  for  Masaccio's  frescoes,  a  rare 
smile  of  the  first  Florentine  Renaissance  in  Rome, 
as  precious  as  the  grace  of  Angelico  at  the  Vatican. 
I  say  sadly,  remembering  the  recent  and  showy 
decorations,  which,  although  not  loud,  disfigure  this 
old  church  where  prayed  the  first,  simple  Christians 
who  had  no  need  of  a  beautiful  ceiling  over  their  bent 
heads.  The  upper  church  of  Saint  Clement's  was 
like  the  Lateran,  not  far  away,  and  so  many  other 
Roman  churches,  embellished  to  correspond  with 
Rome's  position  as  the  capital  of  the  pontifical  realm, 
but  less  brilliantly  than  some  others  because  it 
stood  in  the  quarter  of  the  disinherited.  With  the 
grandeur  of  the  Colosseum  near  by,  and  all  else  that 
reveals  the  power  of  the  Roman  Empire,  it  is  not  the 
luxurious  drawing-room  of  Santa  Maria  Maggiore, 
not  even  the  Moses  that  seems  to  raise  Christianity 
as  its  great  rival,  but  the  bare  and  modest  Saint 
Clement's  of  the  poor  first  Christians,  the  little  sink- 
ing church  with  the  low,  smooth  columns,  the  naive 
paintings,  the  Saint  Clement's  of  the  religion  of  Christ 
entirely  pure,  without  politics,  without  vices. 


0 ipo       2fa 


TwelftK  Day 

COUNTRY  PLEASURES 

Tivoli,  Hadrian's  Villa 


HE  excursion  to  Tivoli,  if  you  can  give 
but  a  day  to  it,  makes  one  of  the 
fullest  days  you  will  have.  To  see 
these  celebrated  and  always  fre- 
quented mountains,  the  famous  cas- 
cades and  venerated  temples,  the  Renaissance  villas 
and  gardens  known  the  world  over;  and,  on  the  plain, 
to  visit  the  Roman  ruins  of  Hadrian's  retreat,  for- 
merly pillaged  by  man,  now  devastated  by  implacable 
nature,  is  not  that  a  task  for  one  single  man  in  one 
single  day  for  one  single  chapter  of  his  book!  It  is 

146 


COUNTRY  PLEASURES  147 

when  attempting  to  crowd  together  such  a  series  of 
visits  as  this  that  one  sees  how  necessary  it  is  to  live 
in  Rome,  instead  of  merely  passing  through  it,  in 
order  to  know  it.  Let  us  console  ourselves  with  the 
thought  that  the  people  who  live  in  a  city  frequently 
are  those  who  know  it  the  least. 

Tivoli,  the  ancient  Tibur,  is  an  interesting  place 
even  to  a  traveller  whose  mind  has  not  been  too  well 
nourished  upon  Latin  literature  and  history.  Even 
more  than  Tusculum,  it  was  the  favourite  resort  of 
the  ancient  Romans.  Tusculum-Frascati  was  the 
chosen  residence  of  the  men  of  the  Renaissance,  Ti- 
bur-Tivoli,  of  their  ancestors.  Maecenas  and  Horace, 
Augustus  himself,  loved  its  freshness ;  Hadrian  rested 
under  its  shelter;  and  to  this  day,  artists  come  here 
when  they  wish  to  fix  their  impressions  of  the  country 
about  Rome.  Even  Montaigne,  little  sensitive  as  he 
was  to  nature,  felt  some  thrills  at  Tibur.  M.  Rene* 
Schneider  tells  us  that  Torquato  Tasso  found  his 
Armida's  gardens  here,  painters  and  engravers  have 
rivalled  one  another  in  portraying  it,  the  lyrical  Gabriel 
d'Annunzio  has  been  in  love  here,  and  the  wonderful 
art  of  M.  Henri  de  Regnier  has  fixed  Frascati,  opposite 
old  Tibur,  in  our  memories  with  the  charm  of  nature. 
Tivoli,  the  city  of  beautiful  cascades,  is  much  less  open 
than  Frascati,  once  the  city  of  spurting  fountains. 
Tivoli  is  all  gathered  closely  about  the  tumultuous 
waters  which  the  Sibyl,  from  the  height  of  her  dis- 
mantled temple,  must  question  unceasingly.  But 
was  that  the  temple  of  a  Sibyl,  and,  if  so,  what  Sibyl? 
We  remember  how,  at  the  Pantheon,  we  were  con- 


148  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

fronted  by  scholars  who  insist  that  a  round  building 
could  not  have  been  a  temple.  Here,  they  concede 
that  this  might  have  been  a  temple  to  Vesta.  Had 
the  goddess  of  the  hearth-stone  sole  right  to  a  round 
temple?  But,  you  see,  if  the  Sibyl  at  Tivoli  were 
allowed  a  round  temple  and  the  little  round  temple  of 
the  Bocca  della  Verita  were  ceded  to  Hercules,  the 
disaster  in  archaeology  would  be  irreparable:  it  would 
be  necessary  to  admit  that  a  temple,  pure  and  simple, 
might  have  been  round!  The  Pantheon  would 
tumble  under  such  an  admission  at  once;  and  who 
would  dare  assume  the  responsibility  of  that?  Filled 
with  good-will  at  all  times,  and  toward  all  gods  and 
goddesses,  I  should  not  choose  between  the  Sibyl  and 
Vesta,  but  constituting  them  co-proprietresses,  esta- 
blish myself  as  their  guest,  and,  in  the  best  of  humours, 
we  three  might  enjoy  looking  at  the  cascades  together. 

The  Sabine  Mountains  stretch  out  one  of  their 
arms  as  far  as  this,  but,  apparently  regretting  it, 
make  a  movement  as  if  to  fold  it  back.  Are  they 
already  overweighted  by  all  the  earth  and  the  waters 
rushing  toward  the  plain?  Monte  Gennaro  forms 
the  elbow,  and  against  the  point,  boring  into  the  rock, 
dashes  the  Anio  which  serpentines  towards  it  across 
the  gorges.  We  remember  how  Velino  is  a  victim  of 
the  rock  at  the  Falls  of  Terni ;  its  road  cut  off,  it  must 
fall.1  The  Anio,  on  the  contrary,  rushed  upon  his 
obstacle,  overcoming  it  and  threatening,  at  the  same 
time,  to  inundate  the  surrounding  country  before 
letting  himself  fall,  until  men  were  obliged  to  dig  an 

1  Little  Cities  of  Italy,  vol.  ii.,  chap.  xvi. 


COUNTRY  PLEASURES  149 

underground  passage  for  him  on  coming  out  of  which 
he  makes  two  or  three  jubilant  leaps  and  goes  on  his 
way.  The  Anio  is  not  angry,  the  gentle  Anio,  as  La 
Fontaine  would  say,  falls  with  more  grace  than  violence 
into  the  hollow  of  the  bended  arm.  There  are  no  such 
bellowings  of  thunder,  no  such  clouds  of  mist,  as  at 
Terni.  The  sunlight  penetrates  everywhere,  and 
the  voices  of  the  birds  mingle  with  the  singing  of  the 
waters.  The  rock  is  covered  with  ilex  and  green  oaks, 
even  blossoming  with  roses  and  lilacs  whose  colours 
harmonize  with  the  emerald  of  the  water  and  the  pearl 
of  its  foam.  From  my  seat  in  the  shade  of  the  pretty 
temple  without  facade,  I  see  the  Anio  springing  out 
from  among  the  roots  of  trees  in  tumultuous  brooks 
watering  the  gardens,  the  cascades  splashing  the 
rocks,  the  trees  climbing  to  the  feet  of  the  clinging 
houses.  In  all  the  scene,  including  this  temple, 
within  the  precincts  of  an  hotel,  nothing  is  virile 
except  the  irresistible  push  which  seems  to  drive  river, 
trees,  gardens,  and  villages  into  the  great  hole  of  the 
valley  below.  Everything  is  leaning  toward  that 
like  Narcissus  over  the  spring.  Thanks  to  the  over- 
flow-channels built  by  men,  Tivoli  has  never  been 
drowned  but  always  able  to  maintain  her  equilibrium 
above  the  abyss,  where  she  sits  in  perpetual  guard 
over  the  falls.  The  mouthless  gorge,  the  inner  side 
of  the  arm,  is  peopled  with  sentinel-hovels,  and  the 
upper  and  outer  surfaces  are  covered  with  watch- 
houses.  Houses,  trees,  the  temple,  too,  think  of 
nothing  but  looking  at  themselves  in  the  turbulent 
water,  yet  gripping  one  another,  accumulating  bushes 


150  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

and  walls,  in  order  not  to  fall,  clinging  with  all  their 
little  strength  to  the  rock  saved  to  them  by  the 
channelling  of  the  attractive  waters.  Opposite,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  narrow  valley,  the  Sabines,  high  and 
tender,  watch  the  struggle  in  amusement,  laughing 
at  it  with  all  their  springtime  bloom.  The  entire 
scene  is  charming,  full  of  grace,  of  changing  colour, 
and  of  delicious  song.  We  have  no  sensation  of  its 
grandeur,  but  of  its  freshness,  its  gay  colours,  its 
picture-like  effect,  its  pleasantness. 

Some  time  ago  there  was  a  lawsuit  in  Rome  between 
the  heirs  of  Cardinal  Hohenlohe  and  the  late  Arch- 
duke Francis  Ferdinand  d'Este.  The  Cardinal,  hav- 
ing rented  the  villa  to  pass  the  summer  there,  had 
repaired  it,  and  his  heirs  asked  the  Italian  courts  to 
place  the  repairs  to  the  account  of  the  proprietor.  It 
was  done,  the  tribunal  considering,  no  doubt,  the 
occasion  a  good  one  to  give  a  lesson  to  the  Archduke. 
The  present  state  of  the  villa  is  veritable  desolation. 
Is  it  through  mere  carelessness  that  the  late  heir 
to  the  Austrian  Empire  thus  neglected  a  glorious 
heritage,  or  does  Austria  take  such  petty  revenge — 
restrained  from  anything  worse,  for  having  been 
driven  out  of  Italy,  and  were  the  Roman  Courts  the 
more  severe  for  that  reason?  Tied  to  a  nominal 
peace  by  the  Triple  Alliance,  Italy  and  Austria 
could  do  nothing  but  vent  their  spite  for  each  other 
over  the  roofs  of  the  Villa  d'Este ! 

This  villa  reminds  me  of  Mantua,  but  there  the 
vastness  of  the  Corte  Reale  excuses  the  neglect :  there 
is  too  much  to  do  in  order  to  preserve  but  little.  Here 


COUNTRY  PLEASURES  151 

a  small  amount  of  attention  would  preserve  a  great 
deal.  The  Casino  d'Este  might  be  occupied  by  other 
than  royal  tenants,  but,  in  looking  at  it,  we  ask  our- 
selves what  repairs  could  Cardinal  Hohenlohe  have 
made?  Upon  its  walls  are  the  last  flashes  of  the 
Renaissance.  It  was  built  by  the  Cardinal  d'Este, 
on  his  coming  to  Rome  from  Ferrara  where  he  had 
grown  up  in  the  refined  court  peopled  with  humanism 
and  the  new  art  by  Elisabetta,  and  Isabella,  and 
Lucretia  and  Leonora,  and  Bembo,  and  the  Gonzagas 
and  Montefeltre.  He  wished  to  realize  upon  this 
rock,  chosen  for  his  pleasure  house,  the  ideal  of  beauty 
upon  which  his  thoughts  had  been  nourished  in  the 
company  of  Alfonso,  of  Ercole,  of  the  Federigos  and 
the  Guidos.  The  house  is  grand,  not  vast.  The 
facade  of  the  classic  Renaissance,  with  the  centre 
higher  than  the  wings,  which  are  on  a  line  with  it, 
gives  an  impression  of  length,  standing  upon  its  high 
terrace,  but  length  relieved  by  loggias.  A  long  pas- 
sage, like  the  crypto-porticus  of  the  Roman  palaces, 
serves  to  string  the  rooms  together,  passage  and  rooms 
covered  with  lamentable  decorations.  The  Anio 
seems  to  have  permeated  this  side  of  Tivoli,  invisibly 
liquefying  everything.  There  is  no  furniture,  hardly 
doors,  nothing  but  the  oozing  walls,  running  with 
ultramarine  and  carmine  carrying  figures  and  garlands 
into  the  mud.  Where  did  the  good  Cardinal  Hohen- 
lohe live?  What  a  melancholy  summer  he  must  have 
had!  Surely  nothing  but  malice  aforethought  could 
be  at  the  bottom  of  the  neglect  of  such  a  beautiful 
specimen  as  this.  If  the  proprietor  had  but  used  the 


152  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

fees  to  maintain  a  little  decency  in  what  he  permitted 
strangers  to  visit!  I  find  myself  in  the  company  of 
several  dozens  of  English  and  American  tourists: 
for  what  have  all  our  lire  gone  in  these  many  years? 

If  the  royal  Austrian  punished  Italy  by  letting  one 
of  the  rarest  Roman  beauties  of  the  Renaissance  fall 
into  ruins,  in  the  garden  his  bad  humour  but  assisted 
nature.  I  do  not  know  if  Cardinal  Ippolito's  horn- 
beams were  as  thrifty,  if  his  trees  were  as  high,  if  his 
paths  were  as  numerous  and  his  copses  as  thick  as 
all  those  I  see  hanging  upon  the  mountainside  over- 
looking the  magnificent  sea  of  verdure — woods 
undulating  like  the  deep,  with  still  masts  of  cypresses 
rising  masterfully  above  the  waves.  The  garden 
indeed,  is  small,  but  infinite  in  its  windings,  its  sur- 
prises, and  its  mysteries.  You  walk  between  high 
perfumed  walls,  bursting  with  fresh  buds.  You  walk 
under  vaultings  which  tremble  and  allow  the  fresh 
sunbeams  to  enter,  delighting  your  eyes,  however 
dull  they  may  be  to  the  play  of  light.  The  real 
cascade  of  Tivoli  is  here,  a  cascade  of  branches,  of 
sheets  of  green,  as  noisy  as  the  sheets  of  water  and 
even  more  full  of  song.  What  depth,  what  solitude 
in  which  the  lofty  tapers  of  the  cypresses  seem  to 
watch  indulgently  over  lovers  and  refugees ! 

From  the  high  terrace  upon  which  the  Casino  stands 
we  go  down  to  the  first  landing,  narrow  and  straight, 
animated  by  an  oozing  rock.  Below  that,  on  a  second 
landing,  is  the  cascade;  and  still  lower,  extending  the 
entire  width  of  the  garden,  is  a  sort  of  trough  where 
a  hundred  little  fountains  play  continually  for  the 


COUNTRY  PLEASURES  153 

delectation  of  a  hundred  decorated  sheep.  The  long, 
mossy  basin  oozes  and  overflows,  its  water  singing 
to  the  trees  it  refreshes  in  gratitude  for  the  shade 
with  which  they  cover  it.  Yet  lower  is  a  beautiful 
out-of-door  room  surrounded  by  colossal  cypresses 
and  facing  a  loggia  which  the  points  of  the  proud 
conifers  seem  to  tickle.  Then  comes  the  miracle: 
upon  the  city  side  of  the  flank  of  the  mountain,  the 
course  of  the  Anio  has  been  turned  so  as  to  distribute 
its  waters  into  brooks  and  cascades  among  the  rocks 
and  collect  them  again  in  a  canal  through  which  they 
flow  in  the  middle  of  the  garden  into  a  great  rectangu- 
lar tank  bordered  with  vareigated  flowers ;  and  here  the 
miracle  culminates  in  the  effects  produced  by  the 
graded  depth  of  the  tank.  Where  the  water  enters 
it  the  tank  is  so  shallow  that  the  bottom  is  barely 
covered,  but  it  gradually  grows  lower,  while  the 
water  is  maintained  at  the  same  level  until  it  is  several 
yards  deep  at  the  outflow,  producing,  under  the  sun's 
rays,  a  really  marvellous  gradation  of  colour,  one 
melting  into  the  other  in  such  tender  shades  from 
lapis-lazuli  to  emerald,  to  pale  blue,  to  turquoise, 
bright  blue,  tender  green,  grass  green,  deep  green, 
grey,  black,  and  these  most  delicate  gradations  that 
sunlight  and  water  can  produce  are  varied  by  every 
breath  of  the  wind,  by  imperceptible  currents,  by  the 
light  shadow  of  a  beautiful  white  cloud  passing  over 
so  that  they  borrow  from  one  another  an  infinite 
variety  of  tints  each  of  which  must  be  returned,  some- 
times slowly,  as  if  grudgingly,  sometimes  brusquely 
as  the  cloud  trailingly  or  in  a  clear-cut  mass  floats 


154  A.  MONTH  IN  ROME 

away.  Nature  has  this  incomparable  fairy-land  for 
her  own.  No  one  comes  down  to  this  neglected  end 
of  the  garden  now,  where  the  River  Cephisus  takes 
his  ease  in  this  pool,  and  if  I  look  into  it,  surely  I  shall 
see  Narcissus  in  his  arms,  for  he  must  be  the  father 
of  that  beautiful  body  and  alone  worthy  to  hold  it. 

Yesterday,  as  I  was  going  down  the  Esquiline  to 
the  Forum,  where  I  pass  the  last  hour  of  nearly  every 
day,  I  noticed,  on  the  way,  a  great  mass  of  red  stone, 
which  my  guide-book  assured  me  was  the  auditorium 
of  Maecenas.  The  Romans,  before  they  had  printing 
to  circulate  their  works,  used  to  read  them  to  their 
friends.  Authors,  fortunate  enough  to  be  able  to  do 
so,  were  in  the  habit  of  building  small  places  suitable 
for  such  readings,  in  their  own  gardens  miniature 
theatres,  resembling  our  Parisian  boUes.  Scholars 
having  located  Maecenas'  villa  on  the  Esquiline,  being 
certain  of  no  other  place,  assigned  these  red  ruins 
now  grazed  by  the  tram  as  the  auditorium  where  the 
friend  of  Augustus  read  his  works.  No  one  questioned 
this  until  another  savant  came  along,  who, — not 
thinking  that  he  would  be  taken  seriously, — ex- 
claimed: "That  an  auditorium?  Pfutt!  Those  are 
graded  banks  for  flowerpots,  such  as  we  have  in  our 
greenhouses!" 

The  archaeological  controversy  that  followed  that 
learned  man's  misunderstood  joke  comes  into  my 
mind  as  I  am  going  down  the  hill  among  the  light  and 
pollarded  olive  trees  to  the  trot  of  a  horse  tricked  out 
with  cow-bells.  I  have  read  enough  about  Hadrian's 


COUNTRY  PLEASURES  155 

buildings  to  know  that  there  remains  nothing  but 
hypothesis  upon  its  ruins.  Auditorium  or  flowerpot 
banks,  let  us  take  care  to  keep  out  of  the  vain  and 
endless  quarrel  over  them.  Scientific  certitude  is  a 
fantasy  except  in  cases  of  precise  texts  not  contra- 
dicted by  others:  even  they  may  become  invali- 
dated; it  is  always  possible  to  discover  something  else. 
Too  often  science  is  the  refuge  of  those  who  cannot 
be  touched  through  their  imaginations  or  emotions. 
What  can  we  be  sure  of  in  respect  to  the  retreat  of 
the  wise  emperor  of  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  the 
model  prince  though  he  may  be  to  the  good  humanists 
and  passionate  artists  we  know  today? 

So,  I  enter  into  no  precise  description  of  these 
ruins,  remembering  not  only  Maecenas'  auditorium, 
but  the  four  or  five  plausible  uses  ascribed  to  the  little 
portico  rounded  about  a  sort  of  pond  in  the  middle  of 
which  floats  an  islet  with  walls  in  ruins.  We  may  all 
read  the  books  of  Gaston  •  Boissier  and  M.  Pierre 
Gusman's  La  Villa  d'Hadrian.  A  simple  pilgrim, 
interested  only  in  impressions,  I  have  no  other  thought 
than  to  make  a  general  sketch  of  the  place  I  arn  coming 
to  see  for  the  first  time,  and  to  note  down  the  passing 
reflections  that  they  arouse. 

I  see  a  brook  still  bearing  the  name  of  the  Tempe 
which  Hadrian  gave  to  it  without  ever  thinking  that 
this  little  valley  would  be  taken  for  Thessaly.  A  long 
plateau  borders  a  short  and  narrow  piece  of  land  grown 
with  willows,  olives,  and  poplars,  a  grove  in  terraces 
which  plunge  into  the  watercourse  while  looking  at 
the  Sabines  on  the  horizon.  A  steep  road,  after 


156  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

having  rounded  the  enclosure  of  a  theatre  of  very 
apparent  remains,  mounts  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  a 
shady  park  of  pollarded  trees  gathers  around  the 
ruins  of  imperial  memory  left  to  their  praetorian  care. 
The  first  view  of  the  ruin  is  striking:  a  great,  thick, 
high,  red  wall.  What  does  it  enclose?  Nothing. 
It  was  built  for  a  double  portico,  one  face  looking 
north  toward  the  winter  promenade,  the  other  looking 
south  toward  the  spring  promenade.  Today  it 
seems  to  be  waiting  to  have  trellised  against  it  some 
gigantic,  improbable  fruit — from  Egypt  or  from 
Germany — such  as  only  an  imperial  gardener  would 
have  the  audacity  to  cultivate.  Behind  this  wall 
lies  a  long  field  with  a  marble  tank  in  the  centre  of  it: 
the  Pcecile,  no  doubt,  the  ancient  entrance  garden, 
but  we  see  no  trace  of  how  it  was  arranged.  Were 
there  groves,  lawns,  long,  straight  lines  and  designs 
worked  out  in  curves?  What  friend  of  gardens  will 
give  us  back  the  Roman  garden?  Now  a  tender 
growth  of  herbage  covers  everything,  offering  a  beauti- 
ful harvest  to  laziness.  One  high  cypress  stands  at 
the  farthest  border.  It  commands  the  substructure 
of  the  terrace  which  makes  a  sudden  descent  and  from 
the  end  of  it  the  plain  extends  in  the  distance  to  Rome, 
enveloped  in  her  haze. 

To  the  right,  however,  the  ruined  buildings  glow 
red  among  the  trees.  A  great  hall  with  an  apse  serves 
as  a  passage  to  the  round  portico  over  which  archaeo- 
logists are  still  disputing.  It  is  a  charming  portico. 
Some  columns  are  still  standing;  others  are  lying 
in  fragments  on  the  ground.  In  the  centre  a  canal 


The  Fountain  of  the  Villa  d'Este,  Tivoli 


Hadrian's  Villa,  Tivoli 


H    ? 


The  View  at  the  Villa  d'Este,  Tivoli 


Anderson 


Anderson 


The  Temple  of  Vesta,  Tivoli 


COUNTRY  PLEASURES  157 

surrounds  a  small  building  whose  rooms  are  arranged 
like  the  spokes  of  a  fan.  What  was  it?  I  think  it 
was  the  little  retreat  preferred  to  all  others  for  its 
tranquil  solitude  and  its  freshness.  It  is  almost 
isolated,  surrounded  by  buildings  which  separated  it 
in  its  heyday,  from  the  world  of  the  villa.  Adjoining 
and  dominating  it  is  a  sort  of  massive  tower  which  I 
stock  with  the  poets  and  philosophers  that  Hadrian 
loved  to  read.  The  wise  emperor,  taking  refuge  in 
this  silent  retreat,  could  step  into  his  library,  take 
down  his  Virgil,  come  back,  all  undisturbed,  resting 
in  the  harmony  of  his  little  isle  as  he  read  to  himself, 
while  his  friends  lingered  under  the  porticoes,  ready 
to  listen  to  him  when  his  reading  called  forth  some 
exclamation  from  his  lips. 

From  here  a  narrow  passage  leads  to  what  one  may 
suppose  was  the  most  intimate  part  of  the  villa,  a 
succession  of  rooms  and  inner  rooms,  great  suites  of 
small  and  large  rooms  with  interior  gardens,  opening 
upon  a  second  terrace  in  view  of  the  valley  and  the 
mountain.  There  are  as  many  as  three  of  these 
rectangular  areas  surrounded  by  brick  walls  which 
were  covered  with  marble,  showing  apartments 
differing  in  extent,  sown  with  columns  lying  broken 
beside  their  bases.  They  are  called  the  Biblioteca, 
the  Giardino,  the  Piazza  d'Oro.  I  see  in  them 
nothing  but  the  mere  arrangement  of  the  apartments 
such  as  is  common  in  Arab  houses,  or,  not  to  go  away 
from  Italy,  around  the  cortile  of  a  Renaissance  palace, 
— the  Giardino  della  Pigna  and  the  Cortile  del  Belve- 
dere of  the  Vatican, — in  fact  the  ground  plan  of  all 


158  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

houses  where  the  climate  makes  it  necessary  to  preserve 
a  free  space  in  the  centre  of  the  dwelling,  with  the 
shelter  and  the  shade  of  porticoes,  yet  open  to  the 
freshness  of  growing  plants,  trees,  and  fountains. 
Of  the  three  areas,  the  Giardino  is  the  most  radiant, 
the  Piazza  d'Oro  the  most  solemn.  Three  halls  shut 
in  the  end  of  the  Giardino,  one  the  end  of  the  Piazza 
d'Oro.  The  three  halls  form  two  niches  flanking 
a  basilica;  great  water  basins  lying  in  front  of  them. 
The  niches  are  not  symmetrical;  one  fronts  the 
Giardino,  the  other  stands  sidewise  to  it.  Columns 
lie  sadly  on  the  ground.  Nothing  is  standing  but 
brick  which  weeps  for  its  pretty  marble  clothes.  The 
gate  of  the  Piazza  d'Oro,  all  swelled  out  on  one  side, 
opens,  on  the  other  side  an  arch  as  proud  as  that  of 
Drusus  or  that  of  Dolabella,  and  is  crowned  by  weeds 
in  flower.  On  the  opposite  side,  bordering  the  area,  a 
gently  rounded  apse  still  holds  aloft  its  useless 
vaulting,  but  lets  fall  its  beautiful  white  arms,  two 
columns,  quite  discouraged. 

I  have  wandered  for  a  long  time  among  these  car- 
casses whose  dry  bones  are  relieved  by  nothing  but 
some  rare  columns.  I  have  walked  the  length  of  these 
buildings,  vast  and  massive  as  barracks,  passed 
under  crypto-porticus,  through  subterranean  passages 
where  there  are  sorts  of  tanks,  crossed  the  stadium, 
nothing  now  but  bushes  overgrowing  fallen-in  rocks, 
and  I  have  been  in  the  baths  and,  upon  the  vaultings 
even  now  almost  intact,  I  have  examined  the  remains 
of  the  decorations  in  stucco.  Scrambling  over  the 
heaps  of  fallen  stone  and  through  the  brambles,  I 


COUNTRY  PLEASURES  159 

have  come  down  the  Canopus,  once  a  beautiful  canal, 
now  a  superb  arena  enamelled  with  spring  verdure 
and  wild  flowers.  The  Canopus  widens  into  a  vast 
tub  where  were  cultivated  rare  and  delicate  plants, 
sheltered  from  the  wind  and  too  brilliant  rays  of  the 
sun.  At  the  extremity,  the  black  hole  of  the  Temple 
of  Serapis  still  keeps  its  apsidal  form  and  its  cascade 
rooms.  It  still  oozes  the  waters  it  used  to  pour  out 
so  generously.  So,  I  have  come  back  to  the  Pcecile 
where,  seated  on  the  low  wall  which  borders  it  facing 
the  great  wall,  I  set  up  for  my  own  use  these  broken 
marbles,  these  stripped  bricks,  and  these  scattered 
memories. 

Although  the  ruin  is  so  bare — and  I  have  never 
seen  one  so  stripped  of  all  decoration — the  first 
impression  is  what  I  would  call  easy  grandeur,  familiar 
majesty.  This  succession  of  apartments,  of  ingenious 
arrangements,  of  well-chosen  sites,  the  clever  fore- 
thought as  to  what  the  eye  was  to  rest  upon,  the 
convenient  adaptations  that  sacrificed  nothing  of 
beauty :  it  is  all  the  work  of  a  master,  a  man  of  refined 
taste  and  noble  inspirations.  He  seems  to  have 
thrown  everything  together  here,  but  all  so  that  it 
has  fallen  in  exactly  the  right  place.  Nothing  was 
lacking  for  solemnity  or  for  intimacy,  for  the  promen- 
ade or  for  repose,  for  the  crowd  or  for  friends,  for 
amusement  or  for  health.  Redress  these  skeletons 
with  their  marbles  and  their  porticoes.  Put  back 
their  statues.  How  many  of  them  were  broken  to 
pieces  and  converted  into  lime  or  carried  away  to 
grace  other  palaces!  No  less  than  three  hundred 


160  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

works  of  art  from  here  may  be  counted  today  among 
the  masterpieces  of  the  Vatican,  of  the  Capitol,  of 
the  Roman  villas,  of  Naples,  of  the  Louvre,  the 
museums  of  every  civilized  country — the  spoils  of 
centuries.  Hadrian  was  a  man  who  had  seen  the 
world  and  did  as  we  all  long  to  do,  when  we  visit 
the  shores  of  the  Latin  lake:  in  his  enthusiasm  for 
art  and  beauty  in  every  form,  he  realized  his  dream  of 
living  in  the  midst  of  what  he  loved.  He  created  a 
sweet  and  delightful  existence  filled  with  the  joy  of 
admiration,  the  happiness  of  passing  his  days  in  the 
midst  of  friends  who  thought  and  felt  as  he  did.  See 
his  bust  at  the  Thermae,  that  shapely,  round  head, 
the  short  beard,  with  curly  hair  above  a  high  forehead 
which  alone  shows  us  a  man  of  gentle  character;  the 
eyes,  with  the  lids  lowered  in  an  attentive  look,  a 
little  near  together,  indicating  a  man  of  taste  and 
judgment  not  easily  abused,  and  the  fine,  long  nose 
said  to  be  the  nose  of  a  connoisseur  is  above  a  mouth 
as  clearly  showing  subtlety  and  indulgence  as  un- 
questionable justice.  It  is  the  finished  portrait  of 
a  man  with  an  upright  heart  and  simple  dignity  un- 
tainted with  pride  or  haughtiness,  a  man  of  experience 
and  culture  whom  fortune  could  neither  unbalance 
nor  pervert. 

As  my  thoughts  pass  from  the  artist  to  the  work,  I 
am  struck  once  more  with  the  arrangement  of  this 
villa  and  how  unlike  all  conceptions  of  what  a  royal 
country  house  should  be  it  is  for  one  accustomed  to 
French  art,  a  lover  of  Versailles,  a  friend  of  Compiegne, 
Fontainebleau,  and  other  chateaux  where  the  French 


COUNTRY  PLEASURES  161 

kings  sought  rest  and  forgetfulness.  We  understand 
the  growth  of  the  Palatine,  the  Forum,  and  even  the 
Vatican,  masses  of  buildings  one  upon  another,  wings 
joined  upon  wings,  according  to  the  exigence  of  the 
successive  generations  that  peopled  them.  Emperors 
and  popes  hesitate  to  destroy  the  testimony  of  the 
past;  from  the  points  of  view  of  sentiment  and  for 
material  considerations,  they  prefer  to  make  use  of 
them,  adding  and  enlarging,  but  not  making  over. 
So  their  palaces  have  grown  awry,  unsymmetrical,  yet 
with  certain  undeniable  beauties.  We  have  already 
learned  something  of  the  artistic  mentality  peculiar 
not  only  to  the  Romans,  but  to  all  Italians.  With 
them  harmony  was  not  the  result  of  balance;  it  was  all 
in  the  grandeur  and  the  particular  proportions  of  their 
architecture.  Before  the  seventeenth  century,  har- 
mony was  never  achieved  in  the  unity  of  conception 
and  execution.  The  Doge's  Palace  itself  presents 
contrasts  and  decorations  without  having  things 
match  or  even  correspond.  The  Palazzo  Vecchio  at 
Florence  has  its  tower  standing  on  one  edge  of  the  roof 
and  overhanging  at  that.  Ideas  modify  with  time, 
and  buildings  obey  ideas.  But  none  of  these  con- 
siderations obtain  here.  The  Villa  Adriana  was 
built  without  interruption,  based,  in  the  main,  upon 
one  conception.  Having  finished  his  imperial  tour,  the 
far-travelled  Hadrian  chose  a  place  of  repose  at  the 
foot  of  the  Sabines,  and  for  ten  consecutive  years  he 
worked  to  perfect  it.  The  site,  upon  the  last  spur  of 
the  Sabines,  was  propitious  for  such  a  villa,  considered 
as  a  whole  a  great  plateau  lying  a  few  yards  above 


162  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

a  narrow  valley.  It  is  the  place  for  these  long, 
broad  buildings  yet  they  seem  to  have  grown  here  as 
they  were  wanted,  not  less  than  twenty  different 
edifices;  and  this  is  as  evident  to  me  in  the  general 
plan  as  in  the  detail.  Just  now,  as  I  was  passing  the 
vast  construction  which  encloses  the  Giardino,  I 
noted  a  basilica,  flanked  by  two  niches,  one  pre- 
senting face  to  the  court,  the  other  a  side.  It  must 
be  added  that  the  niche  on  the  left  is  shorter  than  that 
on  the  right  and  that  not  even  at  the  back  does  it 
join  the  line.  In  the  courtyards  I  find  another 
irregularity,  still  more  surprising,  since  it  occurs  in  the 
ensemble,  contradicting  the  general  plan  of  the  build- 
ings, which  are  rather  scattered  than  united.  The 
courtyards  of  the  Library,  the  Giardino,  and  the 
Piazza.  d'Oro  are  arranged  upon  a  uniform  model:  an 
esplanade  surrounded  by  porticoes  behind  which  are 
the  houses,  rooms,  or  retreats,  all  unvaryingly  rect- 
angular. The  feeling  of  symmetry  is  strong,  yet  is 
lost  the  moment  we  think  of  the  villa  as  a  whole. 
Each  building  is  a  distinct  edifice,  for  its  own  purposes, 
with  no  relation  to  the  neighbour  to  which  it  is  joined 
as  if  by  chance,  by  afterthought,  often,  indeed,  by 
underground  galleries;  they  touch  by  acute  or  by 
obtuse  angles,  they  cut  and  bite  one  another,  but  they 
never  merge  together  or  unite — nevertheless,  each  in 
itself  is  symmetrical ! 

So  we  might  learn  from  this  villa,  if  we  had  no 
other  examples,  that  a  characteristic  of  Roman 
architecture  is  irregularity  in  the  ensemble.  This 
had  not  the  excuse  of  passing  through  the  hands  of 


COUNTRY  PLEASURES  163 

successive  generations  to  transform  it  as  have  the 
Palatine  and  the  Vatican.  Nor  does  it  seem  to  me 
that  all  of  this  characteristic  can  be  attributed  as  it  is 
sometimes  to  Hadrian's  peculiar  wish  to  have  forever 
under  his  eyes  imitations  and  suggestions  of  the 
most  beautiful  buildings  and  places  he  had  seen  in 
his  travels.  That  he  could  only  do  by  putting  much  of 
himself  into  them.  Like  all  artists,  Hadrian  was 
somewhat  of  a  child,  and  the  names  that  he  distributed 
so  generously  responded  more  to  his  imagination  than 
to  the  places  from  which  he  took  them.  Who  has 
not  found  pleasure  in  such  play?  Marie  Antoinette 
played  being  a  farmer's  wife.  Hadrian  played  being 
a  god  who,  from  the  heights  of  his  Olympus,  saw  the 
entire  world  in  the  valley  below  him.  We  must  not 
take  his  naming  of  these  things  too  literally.  Spartian, 
his  biographer,  lived  in  the  time  of  Diocletian,  when  the 
villa,  still  intact,  retained  all  its  names.  Let  us  see 
in  them  the  innocent  pleasure  of  a  man  interested  in 
all  that  he  saw,  one  who  had  a  keen  feeling  for  beauty, 
to  whom  the  mere  pronouncing  of  certain  syllables 
awakened  an  emotion,  just  as  in  the  lover  who  repeats 
to  himself  the  magic  name  in  the  dead  of  night.  It 
is  only  in  vaudeville  that  the  lover  mistakes  his  pillow 
for  his  Margaret.  Hadrian  had  none  of  the  comedy 
hero  in  him.  His  was  a  lofty  spirit,  cultivated  and 
fine.  He  baptized  the  fabrications  of  his  landscape 
with  names  that  were  dear  to  him  without  a  thought 
of  confounding  them  with  the  originals.  The  artist 
who  had  seen  the  Nile  would  never  mistake  his  basin 
of  the  Canopus  for  it,  nor  his  narrow  valley  for  Thes- 


164  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

saly,  no  more  than  we,  in  naming  our  seaside  cottage 
"The  Gurnet,"  would  mistake  it  for  that  fish  of  the 
sea. 

If  after  these  proofs  of  the  grandeur  of  the  Romans, 
of  their  culture  and  the  art  peculiar  to  them,  it  is 
desirable  to  draw  another  lesson,  it  could  be  only  that 
already  learned  at  the  Vatican:  the  mastery  of  the 
Greek  over  the  Latin  mind.  Little  by  little,  the 
Orient  took  possession  of  Rome  because  Rome  had 
never  ceased  to  think  of  the  Orient  from  the  time  she 
first  knew  her  Rome  abandoned  the  paternal  soil  for 
the  Eastern  country  of  mirages,  and  there  the  Roman 
strength  at  length  disappeared,  leaving  the  city  of 
Romulus  and  of  Cassar  to  the  influences  of  a  new  ideal. 
That  ideal,  too,  was  born  on  the  sacred  Mediterranean 
shores,  in  a  little  corner  of  Asia  where  the  Roman 
Procurator  of  Judea  so  thoughtlessly  washed  his  hands 
of  its  destiny. 


YAFtQS 


THirteentH  Day 

THE  SCHOOL  OF  GLORY 

CHateaxabriand 

HE  other  evening,  on  leaving  Chateau- 
briand at  the  door  of  the  Villa  Bor- 
ghese,  I  told  my  venerated  master 
that  I  should  soon  pay  him  a  visit. 
I  have  done  so  today,  in  going  about 
this  Rome  which  saw  him  at  the  height  and  at  the 

165 


166  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

decline  of  his  glory,  in  visiting  all  the  places  that  he 
most  particularly  marked  in  his  august  passage.  To 
accomplish  this  pilgrimage,  I  had  no  need  to  go  out 
of  my  way,  as  on  that  day  when  I  had  my  cafard  for 
Domenichino.  It  was  enough  to  walk  about  the 
Piazza  Navona,  up  one  side  of  the  Corso  and  down  the 
other,  with  a  little  detour  on  my  usual  evening  visit 
to  the  Forum.  The  churches  of  1'Anima  and  the 
Pace,  the  Baroque  fountain  by  Bernini,  and  the  Re- 
naissance Palazzo  della  Cancelleria,  the  churches  of 
the  Gesu  and  the  Aracoeli  lie  along  this  route  which 
Chateaubriand  used  to  take  from  the  Palazzo  Lance- 
lotti,  to  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  to  San  Lorenzo  in 
Lucina,  to  San  Luigi  dei  Francesi,  to  the  Palazzo 
Caffarelli,  and  to  the  Palazzo  Simonetti. 

I  will  confine  myself  to  these  last  named  today, 
leaving  the  first  group  to  their  own  usefulness  of  an- 
other day,  happy  if  I  can  pay  to  the  lover  of  Mme.  de 
Beaumont,  to  the  noble  French  ambassador  to  Rome, 
and  to  the  old  man  who  survived  all  his  youthful 
escapades  the  homage  that  my  fidelity  lays  at  his 
feet  every  time  that  chance  carries  me  his  way.  Still 
happier  shall  I  be  if,  here,  in  Rome,  for  which  he  had  so 
much  feeling,  I  can  enrich  by  a  new  point  of  view  the 
perspectives  which  have  been  opened  to  me  on  his  soul. 

Last  year  I  left  him  at  Terni,  from  whence,  by  short 
stages,  he  brought  Mme.  de  Beaumont  to  Rome  be- 
cause she  wished  to  die  in  his  arms.1  He  installed 
her  on  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  overlooking  the  Barcaccia, 
that  lively  fountain  where  sweet  Pauline  could  still 

1  Little  Cities  of  Italy,  vol.  ii.,  chap.  xvi. 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  GLORY  167 

see  the  floods  coming,  too  quickly,  in  the  Cytherean 
bark,  the  boat  into  which  she  had  embarked  with  so 
much  gaiety.  The  house  where  Pauline  lived  is  no 
longer  standing.  Chateaubriand  found  it  gone  when 
he  returned  to  Rome  in  1828;  but  he  could  look  at  his 
reflection  in  the  waters  of  the  Barcaccia  without 
blushing.  He,  who  really  cared  for  nothing  in  life, 
had  been  generous  and  tender.  Rome  rewarded  him 
for  it,  turning  into  a  virtue  this  last  extravagance 
which  effaced  all  others  that  he  had  committed.  But 
a  few  weeks  passed  before  Pauline  died  as  she  wished 
to  die.  A  monument  in  Saint-Louis-of-the-French 
contains  the  bones  of  that  poor  lovelorn  lady.  The 
church  is  rich,  commonplace  enough,  and,  except 
for  Domenichino''s  frescoes,  chiefly  interesting  for  its 
French  cemetery  whose  epitaphs  seem  to  unroll  before 
our  eyes.  Here  is  Claude  Gelle*e,  here  is  Agincourt, 
here  is  Chateaubriand's  oldest  friend  in  Rome,  "mon 
vieux  Guerin,"  and  here,  against  the  wall  of  the  first 
chapel  on  the  left,  is  her  modest  little  tomb.  The 
bas-relief  presents  a  woman  lying  on  a  bed  in  disorder. 
She  is  hardly  draped  in  the  lightest  of  veils ;  her  head 
is  turned  away,  and  she  has  only  strength  enough  to 
raise  her  right  hand  toward  the  pictures  of  those  who 
belonged  to  her — five  medallions  scarcely  sketched 
in — her  entire  family,  cut  down  by  the  guillotine, 
while  her  left  hand,  fallen  to  the  earth  seems  to  trace 
the  name  which  is  at  the  bottom  of  this  epitaph: 
"After  having  seen  all  her  family  perish,  her  father,  her 
mother,  her  two  brothers,  and  her  sister,  Pauline  Mont- 
morin,  consumed  by  a  languid  malady,  came  to  die  in 


168  .         A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

this  foreign  land.  This  monument  has  been  raised  to 
her  memory  by  F.  R.  de  Chateaubriand"  Here  lies 
the  remains  of  that  touching  love.  Let  us  think  for 
a  moment  what  Pauline  was  to  Chateaubriand,  after 
the  appearance  of  his  Rene.  As  soon  as  he  was  pre- 
sented to  her,  at  Joubert's  house,  she  loved  him  and 
lavished  upon  him  the  treasures  of  devotion  with 
which  her  solitary  and  broken  heart  was  overflowing. 
She  gave  herself  to  him,  steadied  him  at  once,  and 
held  him  in  the  way  by  which  he  was  to  prove  his 
genius  and  definitely  achieve  glory.  She  took  him 
to  Savigny,  away  from  the  world,  and  made  him  work. 
The  Genie  du  Christianisme  is  her  production  as  well 
as  his.  Her,  whom  Chateaubriand  so  honoured  in 
the  year  1804  was  not  so  much  his  love,  which,  perhaps 
did  not  merit  such  a  disturbance,  but  the  woman  who 
had  rescued  him  from  his  vagabond  youth.  Chateau- 
briand raised  this  tomb  to  his  own  memory,  one  might 
say;  and  Pauline's  memory  was  too  inseparable  from 
his  own  for  us  to  reproach  him.  He  owes  her  much, 
she  owes  him  everything.  I  see  him,  at  Terni,  bearing 
her  with  him  to  immortality,  as  the  Velino  carries 
the  little  Nera  toward  the  great,  seductive  river.  In 
Rome,  in  the  Colosseum,  where,  with  the  air  of  the 
neighbouring  marshes,  she  breathed  a  death  more 
rapid  than  her  malady,  she  arouses  our  sympathy 
because  of  the  object  of  her  adoration,  because  of 
what  we  owe  him;  we  are  moved  by  something  more 
than  mere  compassion  for  the  poor  consumptive  whose 
thin  chest  must  forever  remind  us  of  that  of  Cymodocee.  * 
1  The  touching  heroine  of  Chateaubriand's  Martyrs. 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  GLORY  169 

No  one  need  think  that  because  he  left  a  monument, 
supposedly  one  of  love,  as  a  souvenir  of  his  first 
sojourn  in  Rome,  Chateaubriand  had  not  in  mind  to 
balance  this  tomb  with  another.  He  did  not  want 
his  name  engraved  upon  the  stone  which  covers  his 
own  bones,  but  he  inscribed  it  upon  that  of  his  friend 
and  upon  that  of  a  great  French  artist  who,  like 
Pauline,  died  in  Rome :  Nicolas  Poussin.  He  shelters 
his  magnificent  pride  under  these  two  celebrated 
names,  the  celebrity  of  one  created  by  himself;  that  of 
the  other  he  avenged  for  two  centuries  of  neglect. 
Before  the  monument  of  Nicolas  Poussin,  which  we 
should  not  look  at,  perhaps,  if  Chateaubriand  had 
not  invited  us  to  it,  we  call  up  at  once  the  Grand  Bey 
around  whom  the  sonorous  sea  alone  repeats  the  name 
of  the  brilliant,  wearied  Celt.  What  a  proud  way  of 
making  himself  recalled!  France  was  ungrateful  to 
her  great  painter,  noble  forerunner  though  he  was! 
A  century  before  we  discovered  nature,  he  loved  her 
and  expressed  her  in  his  immortal  work.  Nor  is  his 
manner  like  those  who,  two  hundred  years  after  him, 
saw  her  with  wondering  eyes.  He  had  barely  sown 
the  seed  of  his  perceptions  when,  thanks  to  him,  Corot 
came  here  to  seek  the  same  inspirations.  Poussin 
taught  artists  that  one  could  do  lasting  work  in  paint- 
ing dishevelled  trees  against  a  limpid  sky  and 
in  putting  factories  in  a  landscape.  He  did  it, 
certainly,  with  prudence,  and,  sometimes,  with  em- 
barrassment, never  conceiving  the  picture  of  a  brook 
whose  banks  were  not  set  off  by  ruins.  But  we  must 
see  that  the  ruins  only  serve  to  accentuate  the  rocks 


I7o  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

and  the  oaks;  which  are  always  the  essentials  of 
the  work.  Nature  is  the  principal  character  that  the 
hand  of  man  has  decorated,  if  not  profaned;  the 
object  is,  above  all  to  do  honour  to  verdure  and 
water.  Moved  to  come  to  Rome  by  his  faith  in  the 
antique,  Poussin  was  overcome  by  the  city  itself,  by 
the  aspect  of  things,  and  when  he  settled  here,  he 
chose  the  Pincio  from  which  he  overlooked  hills  and 
plains  to  the  horizon.  He  made  his  acquaintance 
with  the  marbles  that  had  first  attracted  him  serve 
in  his  interpretation  of  nature  as  he  discovered  her. 
From  them  he  drew  a  feeling  for  life  which  enabled 
him  to  make  his  landscapes  noble  and  vigorous. 
Rarely  has  any  artist  carried  this  complete  assimila- 
tion to  such  perfection.  He  shows  us  the  meaning 
of  the  word  "inspiration."  Understanding  how  to 
translate  the  art  of  statuary  into  his  pictorial  manner, 
he  made  the  Greek  feeling  his  own;  sustained,  but 
never  enslaved  by  it,  he  found  in  it  the  power  that 
made  his  genius  blossom,  whereas  so  many  men  of 
mere  talent  were  withered  by  it.  The  antique  did 
much  in  making  Poussin's  art  pure,  lofty,  scrupulous, 
and  the  material  trace  of  that  ennobling  influence  we 
find  in  his  habit  of  mingling  statuary  with  his  land- 
scapes, as  flowers  in  a  field,  a  mannerism  which  reveals 
his  faithful,  not  servile,  heart. 

The  former  chancellor  to  the  French  Embassy,  re- 
turning to  Rome  with  his  wife,  after  the  Ambassador 
of  the  Restoration,  knew  whom  to  chose  as  the  Roman 
glory  of  his  country.  In  the  church  of  San  Lorenzo 
in  Lucina  there  are  but  three  objects  of  interest:  a 


Anderson 

Saint  Cecilia  and  Saint  Valerian,  by  Domenichino,  Church  of 
Saint  Cecilia 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  GLORY  171 

Guido  Reni,  the  gridiron  of  Saint  Lawrence,  and  a 
slab,  fixed  against  a  pillar,  carrying  a  bust  and  a  bas- 
relief,  and  inscribed :  F.  R.  de  Chateaubriand  to  Nicolas 
Poussin,  to  the  honour  of  arts  and  the  glory  of  France. 
When  the  ambassador  announced  to  the  French  art 
students  of  the  Villa  Medici,  doing  them  the  honour 
to  sit  at  their  table,  that  it  was  his  intention  to  glorify 
Poussin,  he  was  acclaimed  as  if  he  were  already  honour- 
ing the  ashes  of  those  ambitious  young  men — comme 
si  "il  honorait  dejd  leurs  cendres" — and  not  only  their 
ashes,  but  those  of  all  Frenchmen  who  come  to  Rome 
to  fill  their  souls  with  the  beautiful;  in  glorifying  the 
ancestor,  Chateaubriand  honoured  the  whole  line. 
Whoever  loves  Rome  cannot  fail  to  love  him  who 
felt  and  expressed  the  sympathetic  enthusiasm  of  all 
Roman  beauty.  To  glorify  Poussin  was  to  speak  for 
all  of  us  who  wish  to  realize  what  he  accomplished,  to 
put  into  our  work  this  beauty  which  overcomes  us 
and  carries  us  off  our  feet. 

Yet,  when  he  wrote  to  Mme.  Re"camier:  "You 
wished  me  to  mark  my  visit  to  Rome;  it  is  done; 
the  tomb  to  Poussin  will  remain,"  Chateaubriand 
had  not  forgotten  his  mission.  That  was  his  one 
perpetual  thought.  He  was  not  in  the  least  blinded 
by  it.  He  knew  perfectly  that  it  had  been  confided  to 
him  only  to  get  him  out  of  Paris  where  his  vote  and 
his  disdain  were  not  wanted  at  that  moment.  But  he 
accepted  it  with  a  smile,  and  we  see  the  smile  in  every- 
thing he  did.  It  amused  him  to  show  Rome  to  Mme. 
de  Chateaubriand  when  she  could  tear  herself  away 
from  her  caged  birds.  Did  he  show  her  Mme.  de 


172  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Beaumont's  tomb?  Did  he  show  her  the  Palazzo 
Lancelotti  where  he  used  to  exasperate  Fesch  by  his 
detached  manner?  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand  was 
all  generosity  towards  her  husband,  with  her  clear 
intelligence  fully  appreciating  his  brilliant  mind. 
Between  two  of  these  walks,  he  would  go  to  see  his 
excavations  at  Torre  Vergata,  or  Tasso's  cell  at  San 
Onofrio,  gradually  taking  up  again  all  the  threads 
of  his  former  interests  in  Rome.  He  had  begun  to 
think  of  settling  here  and  had  entered  into  prelimina- 
ries with  the  Prussian  Ambassador  for  the  purchase 
of  the  Palazzo  CafFarelli  which,  however,  succeeded  to 
the  German  Embassy.  On  the  very  spot  where  the 
Temple  of  Jupiter  used  to  stand,  Chateaubriand  was 
toying  with  the  thought  of  ending  his  days  when  the 
death  of  the  Pope  Pius  VIII.  suddenly  brought  him 
back  to  his  own  day  which  he  gave  himself  so  much 
trouble  to  forget  in  dwelling  upon  the  dead,  upon  Paul- 
ine, Poussin,  Torre  Vergata,  Jupiter.  "This  Rome 
lying  all  about  me  should  teach  me  to  despise  politics. 
Here  both  liberty  and  tyranny  have  perished ;  I  see  the 
mingled  ruins  of  the  Roman  Republic  and  the  Empire 
of  the  Tiber,  all  lying  in  the  same  dust;  what  does 
either  of  them  signify  today?  Does  not  the  passing 
Capuchin  monk  who  sweeps  this  dust  with  his  habit 
make  us  see  more  clearly  than  ever  the  vanity  of  all 
these  vanities?  "  Chateaubriand  has  often  been  re- 
proached for  his  funereal  pictures,  imputed  to  affecta- 
tion. Indeed,  it  is  easy  to  be  so  deceived.  When  he 
wrote  this  the  Pope  had  just  died.  The  next  moment 
Chateaubriand  had  thrown  himself  headlong  into  the 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  GLORY  173 

intrigues  and  puerilities  of  the  occasion,  all  his  politi- 
cal disdain  forgotten.  He  was  everywhere,  wrote 
twenty  despatches  in  a  day,  reproaching  the  Minis- 
ter and  the  King,  committing  every  sort  of  audac- 
ity, such  as  excluding  a  cardinal  from  the  conclave 
without  instructions  from  his  Government.  The 
opportunity  tempted  him  to  indulge  in  all  the  follies 
of  luxury  in  the  Simonetti  Palace  on  the  Corso  where 
Louis  XVIII.  had  hastened  to  re-establish  the  French 
Embassy,  and  where  Cardinal  de  Bernis,  whom  Vol- 
taire called  Babet  the  Flower-vase,  had  so  gallantly 
represented  Louis  XV. 

Chateaubriand  never  had  de  Bernis's  opportunity 
to  extend  his  hospitality  to  a  Cardinal  Clermont- 
Tonnerre  with  fourteen  servants,  an  archbishop  of 
Toulouse  requiring  separate  service  and  carriages 
even  for  his  guests,  but  he  lived  in  pomp,  with  an  eye 
to  everything  but  prudence,  altogether  a  great  lord 
and  altogether  charming.  He  gave  dinners  and  took 
mischievous  pleasure  in  inviting  his  former  chief, 
Cardinal  Fesch,  who  refused,  however.  King  Jerome 
had  recourse  to  him  and  he  interceded  in  his  favour. 
And  there  we  have  a  fissure  through  which  light  falls 
upon  the  soul.  Not  only  in  1803  did  Rene*  throw 
himself  into  the  cause  of  the  dethroned  King  of  Sar- 
dinia, but  twenty-five  years  later  he  awakened  two 
corpses:  Fesch  and  Jerome.  All  his  life  he  was  the 
lad  of  Combourg  who  ran  away  across  the  moor  with 
a  gun  in  his  hand — which,  by  chance,  did  not  go  off. 

As  a  man  he  had  reasoned  it  out,  and  very  truly, 
that  the  only  triumph  worthy  of  ambition  is  that  of 


174  A-  MONTH  IN  ROME 

the  mind,  of  the  soul;  the  godlike  ideal  is  attainable 
only  through  misfortune,  by  defeat.  It  is  not  difficult 
to  obtain  admiration  and  respect  when  we  have  ob- 
tained success.  To  compel  them  in  the  midst  of 
ruin  is  the  touchstone.  He  who  does  not  survive  the 
tomb  is  not  worthy  of  destiny.  Chateaubriand  loved 
power,  luxury,  the  homage  of  men;  yet  as  soon  as  he 
had  acquired  them  he  disdained  them  all  for  the  satis- 
faction of  hearing  posterity  chant  the  unison  of  his 
life  in  his  own  ears.  He  who  "believed  in  nothing, 
not  even  in  kings,"  passed  his  life  in  defending  lost 
causes  and  in  consoling  the  vanquished.  To  crown 
himself,  no  doubt,  but  at  least,  in  a  way  that  no  one 
else  did  it,  even  in  those  earlier  days.  When  he  threw 
his  resignation  in  Napoleon's  face,  he  was  thinking 
what  we  should  say  of  it.  Pride  like  that  becomes 
abnegation.  He  polished  his  life  with  a  view  to  im- 
mortality. Such  was  his  way  of  understanding  life 
and  immortality,  which  lie  before  us  all!  Rome  was 
wonderfully  adapted  to  the  ideas  of  a  visionary  soul 
possessing  such  terrifying  divination  of  the  laws 
which  govern  that  which  we  call  glory.  He  assumed 
an  air  of  gravity  among  the  ruins  which  taught  him 
that  the  vanity  of  vanities  is  to  think  of  the  hour  and 
not  of  the  ages.  To  them,  not  to  the  Grand  Bey,  he 
confided  his  name;  it  is  in  the  Roman  excavations 
that  we  gather  the  debris  of  his  heart,  to  build  up  his 
statue,  as  he  did  for  the  bust  of  Poussin. 


FcxurteentH  Day 

UNDER  THE  EUCALYPTUS 

WitHoxit  tKe  Walls 

ODAY  I  have  seen  some  real  churches, 
but  they  are  not  in  Rome.  When, 
by  the  Edict  of  Milan,  Constantine 
authorized  the  Christian  religion,  the 
disciples  of  the  new  faith  hastened  to 
go  out  of  the  city  where  they  had  suffered  so  greatly, 
where  the  pagan  temples  still  insulted  the  true  God. 
Naturally  they  were  attracted  to  the  cemeteries 
where  lay  their  loved  ones,  the  crowd  of  their  perse- 
cuted dead,  and  their  celebrated  martyrs.  The  Chris- 
tians shook  the  dust  of  Rome  from  their  feet  as  they 
passed  the  gates,  and,  outside  the  walls,  they  raised 
monuments  to  their  faith.  Saint  Peter's,  too,  was, 
in  the  beginning,  such  a  little  church  raised  over  vene- 
rated ashes.  The  Vatican  alone  has  given  it  its 

175 


I76  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

present  lustre  and  which  is  not  enough  to  keep  us 
from  regretting  the  modest  church  built  by  Saint 
Sylvester  I.  The  other  early  temples,  too  far  away 
to  contribute  to  the  prestige  of  the  papacy,  were 
disdained  by  popes  and  princes.  The  Baroque  art 
had  nothing  to  do  with  these  sheep-folds  whose 
flocks  were  pastured  in  a  leprous  country.  The 
Roman  court  concentrated  its  generosities  upon  the 
city  churches,  leaving  the  guardianship  of  the  tombs 
of  heroic  martyrs  to  the  boors  faithful  to  their  pas- 
toral origin  in  the  time  of  Evander  and  the  kings.  In 
our  own  day,  since  the  value  of  these  witnesses  of  a 
noble  epoch  have  become  appreciated,  they  have 
been  cared  for  with  all  the  wisdom  that  modern 
artistic  piety  can  give  to  its  restorations. 

Of  the  five  or  six  churches  that  I  have  been  in 
today,  Saint  Paul's  is  the  most  celebrated  and  the 
richest,  Saint  Agnes's  is  the  most  touching,  and  Saint 
Lawrence's  is  the  most  beautiful.  San  Lorenzo  has 
been  built  upon  the  tomb  of  that  martyr,  a  crypt  dug 
under  a  hill  which  serves  as  a  cemetery  to  this  day. 
The  crypt  was  separated  from  the  hill,  and,  at  differ- 
ent epochs,  has  been  built  around  it  the  basilica  that 
Pius  IX.  restored,  after  having  chosen  it,  with  much 
Christian  feeling,  for  his  sepulchre.  On  the  outside, 
it  is  the  hay-shed  we  have  already  seen  at  Ravenna. * 
In  the  interior,  it  is  a  pure,  classic  basilica,  full  of 
nobility  and  strength.  How  I  love  the  solid  walls 
standing  upon  the  columns!  I  love  them  a  little, 
perhaps,  because  they  mock  the  wise  authorities  on 

1  Little  Cities  of  Italy,  vol.  ii.,  chap.  viii. 


UNDER  THE  EUCALYPTUS  177 

architecture  who  say  that  a  solid  wall  cannot  stand 
on  columns,  much  because  of  this  modern  use  of  them; 
their  adaptation  to  the  new  religion  touches  me  with 
the  thought  of  the  evolution  of  the  mind  of  man,  an 
evolution  that  took  place  with  a  holy  calm,  for  the 
Roman  Christian  was  no  more  inventive  than  the 
pagan.  Obliged  to  provide  a  building  for  the  gather- 
ing of  the  congregations,  he  contented  himself  with 
copying  and  modifying  according  to  necessity,  the 
old  basilica  of  the  forums.  That  had  a  nave  with 
two  aisles,  sometimes  four,  defined  by  rows  of  columns 
which  support  the  wall,  pierced  by  windows,  and  bears 
a  flat  roof.  At  the  end,  the  apse,  formerly  the  seat 
of  the  temporal  judge,  is  now  dedicated  to  the  Judge 
of  the  Last  Judgment.  The  end  opposite  the  apse 
has  been  shut  with  a  wall, — in  which  there  is  a  door, 
of  course, — in  order  to  keep  out  unbelievers  from  the . 
congregation  of  the  faithful;  and  directly  in  front  of  the 
apse,  on  a  level  with  it,  have  been  added  two  arms, 
extending  at  right  angles  on  both  sides  of  the  nave, 
for  the  dignitaries  and  certain  confraternities:  these 
are  the  transepts.  Such  is  the  Christian  basilica — 
the  Basilica  Julia,  the  Basilica  Emilia  turned  into 
churches.  The  Roman  Christians  did  not  make 'bold 
to  adopt  vaulting,  such  as  we  find  in  the  Basilica 
Constantine,  as  the  Lateran  was  called  until  the 
Middle  Ages,  until  after  the  time  of  the  invasion  of 
the  Goths.  Do  not  think  that  Rome  cedes  her  vault- 
ing to  the  Gothic  genius  on  that  account.  Oh,  no! 
It  remains  with  appealing  tenacity  as  one  of  the  oldest 
traditions  of  the  race  that  the  vaulting  is  a  Roman 


178  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

form  in  architecture!  If  the  Goths  knew  all  about  it, 
why  they  did,  but  it  is  a  Roman  form!  Whether 
Gothic  or  Roman,  when  the  Christians  adapted  it 
to  the  basilicas,  cutting  its  arre"ts,  they  never  tried  to 
do  away  with  the  ancient  apse,  nor  the  transepts, 
which  they  took  pains  to  associate  with  the  form 
of  the  Holy  Cross.  Let  us  look  thoroughly  at  these 
Christianized  basilicas,  so  pagan  that  no  one  has  ever 
been  able  to  give  them  any  other  name.  In  them 
one  reads  clearly  the  continuity  of  the  ages,  the  per- 
severance of  that  old  race  which  even  in  changing  its 
soul,  yet  remained  strongly  attached  to  its  primitive 
customs.  In  contrast  to  the  Ge*su  and  Saint  Peter's, 
we  see  in  San  Lorenzo  what  a  perfect  shelter  for  medi- 
tation the  basilica  was  for  the  mystery-loving  soul. 
Divinity  here  manifests  itself  grave  and  serene,  calm, 
strong  as  God  is.  It  has  recourse  to  no  artifice  in 
offering  its  shelter,  uses  only  the  simplest  means;  a 
roof  simply  laid  at  a  right  angle  upon  its  walls,  columns 
being  used  but  to  augment  the  surface  of  the  floor 
space.  No  pomp,  no  decoration,  not  even  on  the  ceil- 
ing, Renaissance  though  it  is,  which  has  escaped  the 
painters  who  soon  after  this  epoch  so  abused  the  House 
of  God.  San  Lorenzo  has  kept  almost  all  the  antique 
purity,  and  where  it  has  renounced  that  merit,  it  has 
done  so  to  preserve  for  us  one  of  the  most  surprising 
novelties  of  the  Christian  epoch. 

San  Lorenzo,  in  fact,  has  been  turned  around.  In 
the  thirteenth  century  it  was  enlarged  in  a  bizarre 
manner:  by  breaking  down  one  side  of  the  apse  and 
building  out  from  it  a  new  basilica,  higher  than  the 


UNDER  THE  EUCALYPTUS  179 

old  one  and  forming  a  new  nave.  Between  the  two  is 
the  elevated  choir  with  a  crypt,  half  the  length  and 
half  the  height  of  the  nave  of  the  old  church.  After 
mounting  the  steps  of  the  choir,  finding  yourself  on  the 
platform,  you  can  touch  the  capitals  of  the  ancient 
columns.  From  that  point  you  see  the  flutings  dip 
instead  of  slant  upwards,  a  reversed  effect  which  is 
striking.  At  the  bottom  of  the  steps,  also,  the  deco- 
ration is  strange,  especially  of  the  superb  columns 
which  seem  to  grow,  like  trees,  out  of  the  pavement. 
One  feels  as  if  there  had  been  a  mighty  struggle 
between  the  two  temples,  out  of  which  both  had  come 
victorious.  It  is  a  two-storey  church,  and  that  is  all; 
with  the  novelty,  however,  that  the  storeys  are  not 
placed  one  above  another,  but  joined  together  so  that 
one  steps  from  the  one  to  the  other.  It  is  in  the  lower 
part,  in  the  half -crypt  of  Saint  Lawrence  that  Pius 
IX.  ordered  his  tomb  to  be  placed,  in  a  chapel  entirely 
covered  with  mosaics  which  swear  angrily  at  the 
columns,  capitals,  and  architraves  taken  out  of  the 
ruins.  But  let  us  not  reproach  Pius  IX.  too  much 
for  his  shining  tomb,  since  we  owe  to  him  the  disen- 
gaging of  this  pseudocrypt,  formerly  covered  over. 
Besides,  the  sarcophagus  is  attractive,  worthy  of  the 
old  basilica  chosen  to  shelter  it. 

San  Lorenzo  has,  also,  the  most  beautiful  examples 
of  the  art  said  to  be  introduced  by  the  Cosmati  family 
who  transmitted  from  father  to  son  the  processes  that 
an  ancestor,  at  the  beginning  of  the  twelfth  century, 
invented  or  received,  as  some  say,  from  the  monks  of 
Monte  Cassino  who  had  it  from  Byzantium.  Cosma, 


i8o  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

the  elder,  had,  or  took  from  the  Benedictine  work- 
men, the  idea  of  gathering  up  all  the  chips  of  marble, 
dust  of  statues,  fragments  of  broken  columns  and 
ruined  capitals,  even  little  bits  of  partly  melted  gold, 
bronze,  the  debris  of  every  sort  and  colour  scattered 
over  Rome.  Cartloads  of  chips  and  grains  of  por- 
phyry, jasper,  Pentelican,  Cipollino,  African  marbles, 
were  gathered  together  and  carried  to  his  workroom, 
sorted  over,  separated,  mixed,  harmonized,  contrasted 
in  decorations,  all  after  the  antique,  from  models 
found  in  the  fragments  themselves  or  in  more  import- 
ant works  of  which,  at  that  epoch,  Rome  was  still 
covered  in  an  abundance  and  a  relative  integrity  of 
which  we  know  nothing.  The  Cosmati  made  these 
ambones,  these  early  pulpits,  these  candelabra,  these 
door-jambs,  railings,  pavements  of  infinitely  small 
fragments  of  multi-coloured  stone,  arranged  in  de- 
signs, regular  or  profile,  according  to  the  object,  but 
always  logical,  always  full  of  life  and  pleasing.  A 
little  art,  no  doubt,  but  charmingly  ingenious  and 
worthy  of  our  respect,  since  it  sought, — two  hundred 
years  before  the  Renaissance, — to  fathom  the  antique 
and  draw  inspiration  from  it.  The  Cosmati  made 
blossom  a  sort  of  Renaissance  of  their  own,  such  as 
we  have  seen  in  other  phases,  in  Lombardy,  especially 
in  the  Certosa  of  Pavia.  The  generations  of  the 
Cosma  family  lived  long  in  the  land,  like  those  of  the 
Robbia ;  and  who  knows  if  it  was  not  thanks  to  it  that 
the  torch,  as  well  as  the  vestal  fire,  were  preserved 
from  extinction?  The  pavement,  the  ambones,  and  the 
Easter  candelabra  of  San  Lorenzo  are  among  the  best 


UNDER  THE  EUCALYPTUS  181 


works  that  came  from  their  hands,  and  they  are  enough 
to  make  us  love  this  art  which  today  would  be  called 
decorative,  and  which,  in  spite  of  its  limited  resources, 
found  expression  that  was  delicate,  new,  and  tradi- 
tional at  the  same  time,  as  well  as  almost  impeccable; 
eyes  most  familiar  with  the  antique  may  dwell  upon 
it  without  displeasure. 

By  way  of  the  Porta  Pia — celebrated  in  Italian 
history  for  being  opened  September  20,  1870,  to  the 
royal  army  which  took  possession  of  the  papal  city — 
a  tramway  leaves  Rome  through  a  modern  suburb 
of  broad  avenues,  houses  and  land  under  speculation, 
and  barracks.  It  passes  beautiful  gardens  from  time 
to  time,  like  that  of  the  Villa  Torlonia,  through  whose 
branches  we  fancy  we  can  see  colonnades  and  spark- 
ling waters.  Gradually  the  houses  grow  farther 
apart,  we  find  ourselves  in  the  country,  and  come  to  a 
village  with  a  basilica  so  low  that  it  is  necessary  to 
descend  forty  steps  to  enter  it.  This  is  Saint  Agnes's, 
which  has  not  been  made  higher  like  San  Lorenzo, 
but  retains  its  sepulchral  character,  its  aspect  of  a 
tomb  hospitable  to  the  living.  Much  smaller  than 
San  Lorenzo,  less  strange,  perhaps,  certainly  less 
solemn,  but  with  a  more  intimate  charm,  which  may 
be  due  to  access,  Santa  Agnesa  has  one  peculiarity 
in  common  with  the  more  imposing  basilica  of  Saint 
Lawrence,  a  peculiarity  even  more  clearly  marked 
here  than  there;  it  is  a  model  of  the  two-storeyed 
basilica.  The  entablature  of  the  low  row  of  columns 
carries  others  in  place  of  a  straight  wall,  and  so  the 
lower  portico  is  doubled.  Among  the  ancient  ba- 


i82  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


silicas,  that  of  Trajan  was  the  most  important  one, 
perhaps,  built  in  this  manner,  and  the  idea  was 
adopted  for  Saint  Agnes's,  no  doubt,  to  avoid  placing 
the  roof  on  a  level  with  the  ground.  The  lighting  is 
affected  by  the  position  of  the  church,  so  deeply  set 
with  the  ground  close  about  it;  the  shadows  are  paler 
and  longer  than  elsewhere.  The  sun  can  never  play 
on  these  mosaics,  which  date  from  the  most  obscure 
time  in  the  history  of  Rome.  Yet  the  few  rays  of 
light  cast  upon  the  three  centuries  between  the  fall 
of  the  Empire  and  the  rise  of  Charlemagne,  are  reflec- 
tions from  the  mosaics  of  Santa  Agnesa,  as  well  as  from 
those  of  Santa  Pudenziana,  Santa  Prassede,  and  Santa 
Maria  Maggiore.  Those  of  Santa  Agnesa  go  back 
to  the  blackest  nights  of  the  seventh  century.  In 
the  one  hundred  and  fifty  preceding  years  in  which 
Rome  was  no  longer  in  Rome,  but  in  Constantinople, 
the  slow  work  of  Christianity  made  itself  felt,  the 
silent  conquest  of  the  Church.  The  Goths  had  gone, 
the  Lombards  had  just  come,  Rome  was  repairing 
the  ruins  of  Totila  as  best  she  could,  depressed  by 
affliction,  uplifted  by  hope.  The  Emperor  disdained 
her  and  refused  to  do  anything  for  her.  Her  own 
were  letting  her  perish.  Yet,  in  the  depths  of  the 
palace  of  the  Laterani,  which  Constantine  had  given  to 
the  Church,  a  bishop  led  his  flock  and  spread  abroad 
the  good  word.  Abandoned  Rome  was  his,  and  he 
made  the  most  of  the  opportunity  to  lead  the  people 
to  his  faith.  Gradually  he  became  the  master  whose 
successors  gave  to  Pepin  and  to  Charlemagne  the 
Roman  sceptre  which  Constantinople  was  allowing 


UNDER  THE  EUCALYPTUS  183 

to  crumble.  Santa  Agnesa  is  our  witness  of  this 
obscure  labour:  the  slow  rise  of  the  Church,  of  those 
small  acts,  day  after  day,  a  sermon,  an  impost,  a 
baptism,  the  act  of  a  magistrate,  a  sick  man  healed, 
rearrangement  of  the  budget,  the  steady  progress 
toward  the  organization  of  the  Catholic  State,  daily 
incidents  whose  sum  one  day  upset  the  world.  Santa 
Agnesa  was  built  in  that  mysterious  time  out  of  which 
sprang  the  brilliant  Christmas  of  the  year  800  when 
Pope  Leo  III.  crowned  Charlemagne,  Emperor  of  the 
Holy  Roman  Empire.  What  great  progress  Santa 
Agnesa  reveals  to  us!  This  little  building  has  saved 
us  something  real,  a  tangible  fact  of  the  seventh 
century.  Out  of  the  time  when  everything  was 
drowned  in  obscurity,  when,  in  the  north  of  Europe, 
the  waves  of  the  several  monarchies  hardly  left  their 
traces,  we  have  this  dark,  low  little  church  here  to 
show  us  how  in  the  turbid  shallows  of  Roman  rotten- 
ness blossomed  that  new  flower  whose  seed  has  spread 
over  the  soil  of  the  whole  world.  The  Church  grew 
slowly  but  surely  by  a  struggle  as  continuous  as  it 
was  painful,  scarcely  seen  above  the  surface  of  the 
ground  like  Santa  Agnesa,  until  the  hour  when  she 
suddenly  rose  above  the  heads  of  all  and  claimed  the 
whole  of  this  neglected  heritage.  Then  there  was  no 
one  to  contest  her,  and  so  well  had  she  prepared  Italy 
for  her  rising  that  from  that  time  on  she  flourished 
in  magnificence,  expressing  fully  the  Italian  spirit 
for  centuries,  and  only  when  she  failed  to  do  that, 
did  she  fall  before  the  truer  type  of  Italianism  in  the 
person  of  Victor  Emmanuel. 


184  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Beside  Santa  Agnesa,  the  mausoleum  of  Constantia, 
daughter  of  Constantine,  is  another  sign-post  of  those 
excellent  times  of  work  without  glory.  The  ungrateful 
Emperor  was  leaving  Rome,  leaving  also  monuments 
to  make  the  city  forget  his  fall;  Saint  Peter's,  Saint 
John's,  and  the  others.  And  he  left  the  ashes  of  his 
daughter  to  be  cared  for,  in  a  sepulchre  that  is  an 
exception  in  classical  and  traditional  Rome.  Like 
the  Pantheon  and  the  Temple  of  Vesta,  no  doubt,  the 
mausoleum  of  Constantia  was  round,  but  with  the 
capital  difference,  for  which  the  model  could  have 
been  furnished  only  by  the  Orient,  of  a  drum  carried 
upon  columns,  encircled  by  a  fronton,  also  round. 
Perhaps  I  am  tempted  to  see  in  it  a  piece  of  basilica 
wrapped  about  the  fist,  like  a  cornucopia,  as  the  Palace 
of  the  Doges  is  a  basilica  spread  out  and  broken  on 
the  exterior.  Was  the  Roman  mind  capable  of  such 
boldness  ?  If  it  was,  what  a  pity  it  did  not  persevere ! 
It  respected  the  fancy  of  the  emperor  who  wished  to 
make  both  a  sepulchre  and  a  baptistry  of  this  tomb. 
The  Mausoleum  of  Constantia  is  the  first  flash  of 
Byzantium  in  Rome.  Later,  when  Galla  Placidia 
left  Rome  for  Ravenna,  she  remembered  it.  Why 
did  she  not  remember  the  blue  mosaics  on  the  white 
background  of  the  periphery?  I  shall  soon  see  others, 
more  striking,  too,  in  another  church  copied  from 
this.  Enough  now  to  make  note  of  these  and  to 
regret  the  disdain  with  which  the  mosaics  of  later 
days  avoided  the  delicacy  of  these  light  ceilings  under 
the  cradle-like  vaultings. 

Among  the  paleo-Christian  churches,  Saint  Paul's 


Anderson 


St.  Paul's,  Interior 


St.  Paul's,  Exterior 


Anderson 


St.  Lorenzo,  Interior 


St.  Lorenzo,  Exterior 


UNDER  THE  EUCALYPTUS  185 

plays  much  the  same  role  as  the  large  cities  of  Italy 
play  beside  the  small  ones.  A  Vicenza  or  a  Parma 
cannot  rival  a  Venice  or  a  Florence,  yet  the  sense  of 
intimacy  of  the  lesser  sometimes  makes  the  greater 
appeal  to  our  human  weakness,  to  our  laziness  of 
body — and  of  mind.  Who  has  not  had  his  hour  of 
lassitude  when  the  Trianon  did  not  seem  more  at- 
tractive than  Versailles,  the  little  rooms  more  inter- 
esting than  the  Gallery  of  Mirrors?  The  faithful 
who  are  frightened  away  by  the  pomp  and  grandeur 
of  a  cathedral,  go  straight  to  a  chapel  and  pray  in 
tranquillity  to  the  Virgin  or  the  Saints  that  the  Church 
has  had  the  genius  to  place  between  them  and  terrible 
Divinity.  Just  as  the  masterpiece  has  something  of  the 
inaccessible  before  which  we  shut  our  souls,  as  before 
perfect  things,  so  before  and  around  God,  to  many 
minds,  there  are  too  many  clouds  filled  with  storm  for 
poor,  human  eyes.  San  Paolo  enjoys  this  perfection  to 
a  supreme  degree.  Everyone  who  sees  pictures  of  it 
is  so  impressed  with  its  charm  that  a  visit  to  it  is  looked 
forward  to  with  joy.  How  many  realize  their  enthu- 
siasm with  their  visit?  San  Paolo  is  enormous. 
President  de  Brosses  thought  it  larger  than  Saint 
Peter's;  a  mistake,  of  course,  but  a  significant  one. 
Standing  upon  a  large  space,  San  Paolo  extends  its 
smooth  walls,  raises  its  campanile,  and  offers  us 
entrance  by  a  small  lateral  porch.  The  interior  is 
immense,  carried  by  twenty-four  granite  columns  to 
a  colossal  apse,  and,  crossed  by  transepts,  great  as 
an  enormous  church.  A  cry  springs  from  your  lips: 
"It  is  too  big!"  Those  who  constructed  this  monu- 


186  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

ment  upon  the  tomb  of  the  apostle  wished  to  make 
it  worthy  of  the  great  saint  whose  figure  among  saints 
they  had  arbitrarily  created.  Already  perverted  by 
success,  on  the  way  to  being  intoxicated  by  fortune, 
they  did  not  see  the  fault  they  were  committing  in 
giving  the  antique  form  to  modern  proportions.  Es- 
sentially, the  basilica  was  incapable  of  such  a  de- 
velopment. The  Romans  had  acquired  their  sense  of 
proportion  from  the  Greeks.  They  knew  that  a  line 
of  columns,  to  be  agreeable  to  the  eye,  should  not 
extend  too  far.  San  Paolo  is  not  a  church  for  the 
crowd,  it  is  a  shelter  for  the  multitude.  Saint  Peter's 
is  larger,  but  it  is  made  of  twenty  churches  united 
into  one.  You  pass  from  one  to  another,  as  you  pass 
through  the  seven  churches  joined  together  at  Bologna. 
Space,  in  San  Paolo,  is  glacial.  It  is  not  the  frank, 
open  space  of  the  Baroque;  but  a  false,  an  artificial 
space.  The  columns  prove  that  the  effort  is  futile 
and  the  antique  style  refuses  to  conform.  I  see  the 
relative  simplicity  of  the  means  employed,  the  nobility 
of  the  nave,  the  grandeur  of  the  perspective ;  but  I  also 
see  that  the  characteristics  of  the  basilica,  as  well  as 
of  modern  buildings,  is  that  grandeur  is  obtained  by 
proportion  and  general  harmony,  not  by  immensity. 

In  vain  does  the  decoration  try  to  distract  and  re- 
assure us.  It  but  repels  us  the  more.  I  know  that 
San  Paolo  is  new  in  all  its  parts,  if  not  in  its  concep- 
tion; it  dates  back  but  some  fifty  years,  reconstructed, 
as  it  has  been  twice  in  the  last  century.  It  shines  too 
brightly  all  over,  having  nothing  of  the  polish  of  the 
ages  that  we  love.  Even  the  mosaics  which  partly  es- 


UNDER  THE  EUCALYPTUS  187 

caped  the  fire  of  1823  lose  their  charm  beside  these 
new  columns,  these  walls  pierced  by  too  many  windows, 
these  lustrous  and  gesticulating  paintings,  this  sump- 
tuous pavement.  I  know,  of  course,  that  "the  inte- 
rior of  a  grand  basilica  of  the  fourth  century  or  fifth 
century,  was  a  dazzling  wonder  of  colour  and  rich- 
ness" ;  mosaics,  draperies  of  silk  and  gold  thread  every- 
where, on  the  walls,  between  the  columns,  before  the 
apse;  enclosures  and  tabernacles  of  marble  and  of 
bronze.  The  San  Paolo  of  today  but  repeats  that  of 
former  times,  and  that  is  just  what  annoys  me,  for 
the  repetition  is  not  exact :  the  early  basilicas  no  more 
screamed  with  crude  decorations  than  they  sprawled 
in  disproportioned  dimensions.  Their  beauty  was  in 
their  proportions  to  whose  solemnity  all  decoration 
was  subordinate.  The  perversion  of  the  centuries, 
the  pomp  of  triumph  have  spoiled  San  Paolo  so  that 
it  no  longer  corresponds  to  the  laws  that  created  it. 

Still  less  does  this  travesty  correspond  to  the  elo- 
quent pilgrim  of  the  faith  whose  ashes  it  is  supposed 
to  honour.  The  true  tomb  of  the  great  apostle  Paul 
I  see  rather  in  the  middle  of  the  marsh  where  he  died, 
the  solitary  waste  separated  from  Rome  by  an  uneven 
country  of  sandy  soil  grown  with  long,  thin  herbage. 
My  carriage  takes  me  across  a  veritable  desert,  a 
South  African  landscape  of  sandy  valleys,  long  leprous- 
looking  dunes  below  which  leaks  the  water  of  the  Tiber, 
among  which  stagnates  the  waters  of  heaven.  In  the 
distance  appears  the  little  oasis  upon  some  hillocks 
around  a  dried  pond.  Gradually  I  see  that  the  ver- 
dure grows  dense  and  high;  the  grass  of  the  oasis 


1 88  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


becomes  gigantic  eucalyptus  trees  which  protect  the 
little  Abbadia  delle  Tre  Fontane  against  the  fever  of 
the  surrounding  marshes.  A  few  of  the  monks  are 
still  here  of  those  who  gradually  drained  these  fetid 
lands,  planted  the  eucalyptus  trees,  and  made  habit- 
able the  place  where  Saint  Paul  is  said  to  have  been 
decapitated.  What  a  beautiful  legend  they  have 
made  for  him!  His  head,  in  rolling  away  from  the 
block  on  which  it  was  cut  off,  made  three  bounds, 
and,  at  each  spot  of  ground  where  it  struck  water 
sprang  forth,  springs  that  still  gush  into  a  little  brook 
that  runs  along  the  wall  of  the  small  church  built  to 
mark  the  place,  and  from  which  pilgrims  are  invited 
to  drink.  Modest  and  poor  little  temple,  it  seems  so 
truly  that  of  Paul,  the  friend  of  the  afflicted,  suited  to 
his  heart,  partial  toward  the  disinherited.  These 
flats  where  malaria  is  subtly  generated,  oozing  ex- 
haustion in  summer,  forming  fetid  ice  in  winter,  these 
trees  with  the  loose  hanging  bark,  martyrs  skinned 
alive,  how  eloquently  they  speak  of  the  misery  of  the 
poor  in  a  selfish  and  well-fed  world!  Rome  outrages 
this  poverty  with  her  neighbouring  luxury,  making 
one  feel  by  contrast  all  the  heavenly  beauty  inacces- 
sible to  the  rich  and  powerful. 

One  day  Rome  refused  to  the  monks,  the  guardians 
of  these  miraculous  springs,  some  antique  columns 
they  asked  for  the  little  church  of  San  Vincenzo  and 
Anastasio  that  they  wished  to  build  beside  the  other, 
so  the  monks  built  the  church  upon  piles;  and  so, 
thanks  to  the  disdain  of  the  papacy,  which  wished  to 
keep  its  columns  for  the  flattering  and  profitable  city, 


UNDER  THE  EUCALYPTUS  189 

the  monks  gave  the  world  the  primitive  model  of  a 
form  in  architecture  which  was  destined  to  be  used 
to  excess. 

Everywhere  in  Rome,  among  the  antique  ruins, 
one  runs  against  the  early  Church;  she  who  looked 
after  the  little  ones,  the  humble,  the  unfortunate, 
inclining  toward  the  modest,  leaning  over  to  the  earth 
where  the  proletarius,  maker  of  children,  pastured  his 
flock  of  Romans  of  low  degree.  How  beautiful  she 
is  in  that  mission  of  consoler  and  hope-bearer!  Her 
first  fortune,  the  miracle  of  Jesus,  came  from  such 
help  carried  to  the  victims  of  an  insolent  society. 
But  Pharisaism  soon  spread  among  those  whom  He 
had  led  to  succour  the  lowly,  and  triumphed  a  second 
time.  The  Baroque  art,  the  art  of  the  Church  victo- 
rious, of  the  political  and  princely  Church,  was 
ashamed  of  these  witnesses  of  her  primitive  simplicity. 
Paul  died  in  this  isolated  place  of  the  Tre  Fontane,  so 
typical  of  his  religion,  full  of  hope  even  in  the  hour 
of  death,  despising  the  rubbish  with  which  it  was  so 
soon  to  be  submerged.  At  San  Paolo  we  remain 
unmoved,  men  of  our  own  day.  At  the  Tre  Fontane 
we  can  become  Christians.  Here  I  feel  ready  to 
drink  at  the  springs,  here  I  understand  the  apostle, 
am  capable  of  following  him. 


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FifteentK    Day 

THE  PATERNAL  MANSION 

THe  Korxim 

ERE  we  are  at  the  middle  of  our 
month  in  Rome.  How  many  things 
are  still  to  be  seen!  The  Palatine, 
the  Farnesina,  the  Capitol,  the  Villa 
Albani,  the  Appian  Way,  Albano, 
Saint  Peter's,  all  as  essential  to  becoming  acquainted 
with  Rome  as  the  Vatican,  the  Pantheon,  the  Villa 
Borghese,  the  Thermae,  and  Tivoli.  Although  the  time 
has  not  come  to  mount  the  tower  of  retrospection  and 
review  the  entire  city  would  it  not  be  well,  before 
starting  upon  the  second  half  of  our  rounds,  to  stop 
for  an  instant  to  consider  the  things  we  have  seen  and 
to  ask  ourselves  some  questions  upon  the  emotions 
they  have  stirred  ?  There  must  be  some  hidden  chain 
of  connection,  something  more  than  mere  willingness  to 
see  and  to  learn,  than  the  mere  artistic  and  historical 
enthusiasm  of  the  traveller  to  keep  us  going  in  this 
way  with  so  much  interest,  day  after  day,  from  the 

190 


THE  PATERNAL  MANSION  191 

Forum  to  Frascati,  from  the  popes  to  Praxiteles,  from 
the  Cardinal  d'Este  to  Hadrian,  from  the  Pantheon 
to  the  Tre  Fontane.  There  is  a  bond  that  unites  all 
these  widely  different  things,  and  if  M.  Rene  Schnei- 
der's Rome,  to  which  he  gives  the  sub-title,  Complexity 
et  Harmonie  were  not  written,  it  would  be  waiting  to 
be  written.  To  me  this  bond  seems  to  be  rather 
diversity  and  harmony,  but  that  is  not  saying  that  I 
do  not  agree  in  the  main  with  M.  Schneider's  thought. 
A  similar  question,  more  subjective,  seen  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  visitor,  not  that  of  the  thing  visited, 
is:  how  do  we  maintain  this  keen  interest  in  so  many 
things,  conflicting  in  themselves,  without  being  drawn 
into  the  conflict,  how  can  our  hearts  and  minds  endure 
being  balloted  about  without  suffering;  on  the  con- 
trary, deriving  benefit? 

That  is  why  I  come  every  evening  to  the  Forum, 
because  I  feel  here  not  only  the  Roman  unity,  of 
which  it  is  the  centre  and  the  source,  but  the  unity  of 
my  own  sensations:  here  I  gather  myself  together 
after  having  been  dispersed  all  over  Rome,  like  the 
ruins  in  the  fields.  Every  time  I  come  to  the  Forum 
it  gives  me  what  I  demand :  the  little  synthesis  which 
sums  up  the  main  idea  born  at  each  visit. 

The  question  today  is  why  do  I  always  feel  at  home 
here?  It  will  be  easy  to  hear  the  answer,  for,  to 
those  who  listen,  such  a  place  as  the  Forum  speaks 
clearly:  the  umbilicus  which  marked  the  centre  of 
Rome  and  of  the  world  was  no  imaginary  focus,  but 
a  reality  which  makes  itself  felt  by  every  tourist, 
however  modest  his  pretensions  to  historical  enthu- 


I92  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

siasms,  awakening  emotions  in  his  heart,  like  the  name 
of  an  old  friend.  The  fact  is  there  is  no  one  who  has 
not  been  nourished  in  his  childhood  by  acts  of  which 
this  Forum  was  the  source,  who,  later  in  his  life,  has 
not  been  obliged  in  his  every  act  of  public  life,  in  his 
literary  diversions,  in  his  very  conformity  to  the  laws 
of  his  country,  to  follow  dictates  sent  forth  from  this 
Forum.  Our  French — and  English — political  vocab- 
ularies are  full  of  Roman  terms:  the  people  in  their 
comity,  the  Senate,  the  tribune,  Caesarism,  dictator. 
The  purest  of  our  dramatists,  upon  whom  we  were 
brought  up  in  youth  and  to  whom  we  turn  in  our 
maturity,  all  were  inspired  by  the  dramas  of  the 
Forum;  it  was  even  here  that  Horace  killed  the  Curi- 
atii.  The  foundation  of  our  laws  we  find  in  the 
Roman  Law,  evolved  in  the  Curia  whose  wall  still 
stands  before  us.  These  are  the  evident  truths;  but 
do  they  answer  the  question  or  ask  another?  My 
youthful  mind  was  not  cradled  in  Rome  alone.  I 
read  and  reread  other  foreign  poets,  like  Goethe  and 
Schiller,  almost  as  assiduously  as  Virgil  and  Lucretius ; 
Bavaria  and  the  Rhine  I  know  almost  as  well  as  Italy. 
So  I  should  be  perfectly  happy,  at  Coblentz,  at  Munich, 
at  Weimar,  at  Frankfort,  but  I  am  not.  I  have  been 
touched  by  the  poetry  of  Frankfort,  but  not  held  by 
it.  When  I  think  of  Munich  the  first  images  that 
spring  up  in  my  mind  are  those  of  the  pictures  and 
statues  which  chance  has  carried  there.  As  many 
times  as  I  have  walked  about  the  squares  of  Nurem- 
berg or  Mayence,  however  clear  my  recollections  of 
their  history  have  been,  I  have  never  felt  any  emotion 


THE  PATERNAL  MANSION  193 

deeper  than  interest.  The  exaltation  that  moves  me 
in  the  Roman  Forum  is  that  which  I  have  experienced 
in  my  own  country:  at  Combourg,  at  Treguier,  Avi- 
gnon, Auvergne,  Rouen,  Bourg,  and  Marseilles.  In 
those  places,  too,  I  have  been  able  to  call  up  all  that 
is  dear  to  me,  all  my  masters,  all  my  ideals  and  have 
them  speak  to  me  in  the  same  voice  as  the  reverberat- 
ing echoes  of  the  Forum.  So,  to  say  that  I  am  moved 
here  because  of  these  memories  is  still  not  the  answer, 
since  the  next  question  arises  at  once :  why  is  it  that 
Roman  memories,  and  not  others,  have  the  powerful 
influence  of  our  deepest  home-land  emotions? 

As  I  reflect  upon  this  problem  the  waters  from  the 
fountain  of  the  Vestal's  cisterns  are  running  in  front 
of  me,  the  roses  which  border  it  are  in  bloom,  and  the 
white  statues  seem  to  vibrate  with  life  in  the  sunshine. 
Seated  upon  a  broken  column,  I  look  at  the  sky  mir- 
rored in  the  basins,  that  brilliant  sky,  so  joyous  to 
eyes  from  which  their  native  skies  are  barred  by  mists. 
I  watch  the  lights  and  shadows  all  about  and  linger 
over  the  oleanders  of  Caesar,  shining  and  swaying  their 
pink  flowers.  Before  me,  close  by  the  Atrium 
Vestae,  lie  the  masses  of  the  house  of  Pontifex  Maxi- 
mus,  Caesar's  house,  such  a  little  one  for  so  great  a 
master,  and  built  in  this  stifling  and  unhealthy  marsh. 
Here,  at  the  time  of  the  festas  of  the  Bona  Dea,  Pom- 
peia  was  surprised  with  Clodius,  disguised  as  a  music 
girl.  The  wife  of  Caesar  could  not  be  a  person  under 
suspicion;  Caesar  repudiated  her,  taking  Calpurnia  in 
her  place,  and  one  morning  he  left  Calpurnia  in  this 
house  to  return  to  the  Forum  only  for  his  funeral  pyre. 
13 


194  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

For  several  days  he  had  been  warned  of  evil.  That 
very  night  he  had  dreamed  that  Jupiter  held  him  by 
the  hand,  and  Calpurnia  had  a  vision  of  him  in  her 
arms  pierced  by  a  thousand  daggers.  She  awoke, 
screaming,  while  the  doors  and  windows  of  the  house 
opened  with  a  great  noise  that  set  the  sword  and  shield 
of  Mars  trembling  in  the  Regia.  When  day  came, 
Calpurnia  begged  her  husband  not  to  go  out.  He 
yielded  to  her  fears,  moved  himself,  like  a  good  Roman, 
by  all  these  signs  until  Decimus  Brutus  came  to  seek 
him.  Decimus  was  the  brother — half-brother,  if 
rumour  was  true — of  the  celebrated  Marcus,  com- 
monly known  as  the  son  of  Caesar,  since  he  was  born 
during  the  time  of  Caesar's  intimate  friendship  with 
his  mother,  Servilia,  the  only  woman,  perhaps,  whom 
Caesar  really  loved.  Decimus  Brutus  came  to  seek 
him,  and  the  way  that  Caesar  took,  as  he  went  forth  to 
his  death,  the  very  paving  stones  that  he  trod,  I  tread 
today,  passing  between  the  Regia  and  the  Temple 
of  Vesta.  I  go  along  the  side  of  the  Basilica  Julia, 
and,  as  he  must  have  looked  at  his  work  then  building, 
I  look,  with  tenderness,  at  the  ruins  lying  there  now. 
I  follow  the  Vicus  Jugarius  between  the  Basilica  and 
the  Temple  of  Saturn,  and  there,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Capitol,  I  let  Caesar  make  the  turn  of  the  hill  alone, 
gain  the  Campus  Martius  and  that  Curia,  the  plan 
of  which  one  still  sees  near  the  Palazzo  Farnese,  and 
where  he  will  fall  under  the  blows  dealt  him  by  Marcus 
Brutus:  Tu  quoque,  Fili !  Near  the  Basilica,  here, 
I  await  the  return  which  will  soon  be  accompanied  by 
the  clamour  of  a  desperate  people.  The  crime  has 


THE  PATERNAL  MANSION  195 

been  done  quickly.  Shrieking  cries  rise  from  the 
Capitol,  waking  the  sacred  birds,  spreading  through  the 
Forum,  bringing  Calpurnia,  still  anxious,  to  her  win- 
dow. The  tumult  increases.  A  delirious  crowd 
rushes  this  way  through  the  Vicus  Jugarius,  shouting 
savagely,  tearing  their  clothes,  covering  their  heads 
with  the  dust  of  the  street.  Calpurnia  understands, 
she  comes  out  of  the  house,  passes  before  the  Regia, 
before  the  Temple  of  the  Dioscuri,  whom  she  re- 
proaches for  not  having  saved  Rome  yet  one  more 
time,  and  falls  upon  the  steps  of  the  Basilica.  There, 
at  the  turning  of  the  Vicus  Jugarius,  the  funeral  pro- 
cession appears  before  the  Temple  of  Saturn.  On  a 
litter  made  of  portieres  hastily  torn  down,  an  arm 
hanging  over  the  edge  of  the  curtain,  the  uncovered 
face  all  gashed,  Caesar  lies,  bleeding,  torn,  dead. 
Slowly  the  slaves  advance,  bringing  the  great  pontiff, 
the  master  of  Rome  and  of  the  world,  back  to  his  little 
house.  The  Forum  fills,  the  crowd  rushes  in  on  every 
side :  by  the  Argiletum,  by  the  Via  Nuova,  by  the  Sacra 
Via,  by  the  Vicus  Tuscus;  all  Rome  is  running  to  the 
Forum.  Caesar  has  been  murdered!  Vengeance! 
But  first  honours  to  the  dead,  to  Caesar!  The  body 
is  exposed  before  the  Rostrum,  in  a  gilded  chapel  made 
in  the  image  of  the  Temple  of  Venus  Genetrix,  Caesar's 
mother.  He  is  laid  upon  a  bed  of  ivory  and  covered 
with  a  purple  stuff  woven  with  gold.  The  toga  which 
has  been  pierced  by  twenty-three  daggers  is  spread 
out  like  a  trophy.  The  spectacle  is  terrible,  and  made 
still  more  terrible  by  Anthony  who  cries  that  there 
are  men  in  Rome  who  wish  to  outrage  the  sacred  re- 


196  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

mains  and  that  he  will  defend  them  at  the  price  of  his 
blood.  Then  the  multitude  keeps  the  watch  day  and 
night,  shouting  their  funeral  songs  which  the  soldiers 
scan  on  their  bucklers.  Anthony  springs  upon  the 
Rostrum  and  improvises  a  eulogy,  calls  upon  Jupiter 
and  all  the  gods,  and  appeals  to  the  crowd  never  to 
forget  the  crime.  He  spreads  out  the  bloody  toga, 
counts  the  gashes  in  it,  and  points  out  the  blood 
stains.  Then  he  rushes  down  to  the  funeral  couch, 
throws  himself  upon  it,  turns  his  head  until  it  is 
near  to  that  of  Caesar  (this  is  before  he  laid  it  on 
the  shoulder  of  Cleopatra,  where  Caesar's  also  had 
rested)  and  turned  an  image  of  Caesar  with  its 
twenty-three  bleeding  wounds  to  the  four  cardinal 
points. 

The  day  of  the  funeral  has  come.  Are  they  going 
to  bury  Caesar  in  the  Campus  Martius,  or  near  his 
daughter  Julia,  in  the  Temple  of  Jupiter,  or  in  the 
Curia  of  Pompey  where  they  will  make  his  funeral 
pyre?  No!  Caesar  must  be  burned  in  the  Forum, 
in  the  centre  of  Rome  and  of  the  world!  From  the 
temples,  from  the  Curia,  from  shops  and  houses, 
the  crowd  tears  everything  burnable  it  can  lay  hands 
on,  benches,  chairs,  balustrades,  beams,  even  roofs, 
and  before  the  Regia,  facing  the  Rostrum,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  Forum,  the  pyre  is  raised.  (I  have  slipped 
between  the  walls  of  the  temple  that  was  raised  upon 
the  site,  and  the  oleanders  wave  above  my  head.) 
The  flames  soon  mount  toward  heaven  and  the  smoke 
hangs  its  mourning  veils  on  all  the  temples.  The 
populace  yells  with  excitement  while  the  flute-players 


Anderson 


Forum,  The  Vestals 


Anderson 


The  Anaglyphas,  Roman  Forum 


Anderson 

Columns  of  the  Temple  of  Castor  and  Pollux 


Anderson 


The  Fragments  of  the  Temple  of  Vesta 


THE  PATERNAL  MANSION  197 

tear  their  robes  and  throw  them  in  the  fire,  into  which 
the  soldiers  of  the  legions  who  conquered  Gaul  also 
throw  their  arms  and  their  wreaths.  Some  of  the 
excited  citizens  want  to  put  the  torch  to  Rome  that 
Caesar's  pyre  may  be  worthy  of  him.  The  Consuls 
throw  them  off  the  Tarpeian  Rock,  yet  the  people  must 
have  a  victim.  Cinna,  Caesar's  friend,  offers  himself 
to  honour  the  ashes,  but  is  mistaken  for  Cinna  the 
friend  of  Brutus  and  strangled.  The  night  was  one 
of  atrocious  deeds,  the  days  that  followed  were  of 
worse.  The  people,  tireless  in  demanding  the  pun- 
ishment of  the  assassins,  secured  it  at  length  at 
Philippi. 

Carducci's  triumphal  hymn  comes  to  my  mind  as 
I  stand  here: 

"Although  the  Virgin  no  longer  mounts  silently, 
behind  the  pontiff,  to  the  Capitol,  and  the  pride  of 
triumph  no  longer  curbs  the  four  white  horses  along 
the  Sacred  Way, 

"The  solitude  of  the  Forum  surpasses  all  glory  and 
all  renown,  and  all  that  the  world  contains  that  is 
civilized  and  grand  is  still  Roman. 

"Hail,  Rome  divine!  He  who  cannot  own  thy 
worth  is  he  whose  mind  is  wrapped  in  chill  darkness, 
in  whose  criminal  heart  pompously  germinate  all  the 
seeds  of  barbarism. 

' '  Rome  divine,  hail !  Reverent  over  the  ruins  of  thy 
Forum,  my  eyes  wet  with  sweet  tears,  adoring,  I  wan- 
der among  thy  scattered  traces,  my  country,  my 
saint,  my  holy  mother!" 


198  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Without  turning  traitor  to  my  own  land,  I  can 
mingle  with  these  avenging  groups  of  the  conquerors  of 
ancient  Gaul,  for  it  was  these  legions  who  carried  into 
my  country  all  that  she  has  of  the  beautiful,  the  grand, 
the  noble,  all  that  makes  my  happiness  in  living  in  a 
society  where  the  intellect  is  sovereign,  where  the 
arts  flourish  with  authority,  where  the  laws  are  im- 
pregnated with  liberty  and  justice.  When  I  look 
back  into  the  ages  for  the  mother  of  whom  France 
was  born,  Rome  alone  appears  before  my  eyes.  We 
have  been  fed  on  so  much  Roman  literature  and  we 
have  been  trained  under  so  many  laws  conceived  here 
in  the  Forum  because  our  masters,  guided  by  some 
deep  instinct,  knew  that  only  such  books  and  such 
laws  were  suited  to  us.  I  am  Latin  in  all  the  fibres 
of  my  being,  doubly  so,  since  it  is  thanks  to  France 
that  the  Roman  mentality  has  not  perished.  When 
Caesar  conquered  Gaul  he  believed  that  he  was  but 
adding  wealth  to  his  country,  but,  better,  than  that, 
he  thereby  secured  its  civilization  for  the  future.  In 
colonizing  Gaul  he  made  sure  of  the  perpetuation  of 
his  race,  as  the  French  in  Africa  will,  perhaps,  perpetu- 
ate theirs  on  the  sands  of  Jugurtha.  The  Romans 
gave  us  the  Greek  philosophy  with  their  own,  and  their 
art,  as  Aries,  Nimes,  Orange  still  bear  witness.  Be- 
sides the  Greco-Latin  culture,  the  legions  left  behind 
them  in  Gaul  a  great  many  little  half -Romans  whose 
blood  did  not  fail  to  tell,  and  when  Rome,  put  to  the 
choice,  emigrated  toward  the  Orient  which  had  capti- 
vated all  her  enthusiasm,  she  was  scarcely  aware  that 
she  had  left  the  seeds  of  her  immortality  on  the  banks 


THE  PATERNAL  MANSION  199 

of  the  Rhone,  the  Loire,  and  the  Seine.  For  an  age 
we, — unconsciously,  too, — cherished  the  precious  gift, 
and  when  the  sixteenth  century  dawned,  behold  it  in 
our  own  children  raising  a  great  chorus  of  gratitude  and 
love.  France  threw  herself  into  Italy  in  transports 
which  would  be  incomprehensible  if  they  were  not 
recognized  as  the  outburst  of  the  feeling  of  a  return 
to  the  fatherland.  The  land  was  foreign,  but  we  felt 
at  home.  When  Charles  VIII.  entered  Rome  by  the 
Porta  del  Popolo,  he  was  like  a  man  who  enters  the 
house  of  his  ancestors.  For  forty  years  following, 
then,  later,  at  close  intervals,  until  Marengo,  we  came 
again  and  again  into  Italy,  apparently  conquerors,  in 
reality  brothers.  The  wars  we  made,  under  the 
dynastic  ambitions  which  hid  their  true  motive,  were 
all  for  love.  The  last,  which  ended  at  Marengo  and 
Solferino,  put  the  seal  on  our  fidelity. 

The  Italian  historian,  Signer  Guglielmo  Ferrero, 
who  understands  this  sentiment,  has  shown  what 
Caesar  did  in  the  conquest  of  Gaul  and  what  Augustus 
did  in  the  care  he  bestowed  upon  it.  Signer  Ferrero's 
work  is  an  appeal  to  the  Latin  blood,  and  one  of  his 
titles  to  fame  is  that  he  is  the  first  to  raise  the  cry  and 
to  aid  in  the  resurrection  of  this  brotherly  spirit  which 
for  forty  years  has  laid  dormant  under  the  opposing 
force  of  other  peoples.  It  is  our  common  work  to 
preserve  the  excellence  of  our  ideals,  as  our  race  has 
thus  far  preserved  for  us  the  heritage  of  the  Greek 
culture  which  created  intellectual  society,  and  as  the 
Romans  preserved  the  civil  society  which  together 
form  the  base  of  modern  life.  The  Roman  Forum,  so 


200  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


miraculously  come  back  to  life,  calls  upon  us  with  all 
its  voices,  and  as  I  go  up  the  Capitoline  Hill,  I  answer 
them  in  taking  up  Carducci's  hymn  where  just  now 
I  left  it: 

"Prom  the  fatal  hill,  across  the  silent  Forum,  thou 
stretchest  thy  marble  arms  to  thy  liberating  daughter, 
showing  her  these  columns  and  these  arches ; 

"The  arches  which  await  new  triumphs,  not  now 
the  triumphs  of  kings  and  of  emperors,  not  now  chari- 
ots of  ivory  dragging  chains  that  torture  human 
wrists; 

"But,  thy  triumph,  O  Italians,  over  the  dark  age, 
over  the  monsters  from  whom,  with  imperturbable 
justice,  thou  wilt  deliver  the  people. 

"O  Italy,  O  Rome,  on  that  day  the  calm  heavens 
will  thunder  over  the  Forum,  and  hymns  of  glory,  of 
glory  without  end  will  swell  through  the  blue  infinite." 


Sixteenth  Day 

THE  MAUSOLEUM 

THe  Palatine 

UCH  as  I  have  wished  that  the  wolf 
might  never  be  driven  away  from  the 
Palatine,  I  suddenly  remember,  as  I 
am  going  down  the  hill,  that  while  I 
was  up  there  not  once,  not  in  any 
corner  of  those  gardens,  under  any  of  those  ruins  did 
I  ask  myself  where  her  lair  might  be!  As  I  mounted 

201 


202  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

the  steps  of  the  Capitol  I  saw  her  in  her  cage,  in  the 
middle  of  the  little  garden,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  me, 
more  than  to  the  Romans  of  today,  to  ask  to  have  her 
returned  to  her  native  haunt.  The  poor  exile  howls, 
but  no  one  is  disturbed  by  her,  no  more  than  I  have 
been  the  whole  of  this  day  which  I  have  passed  upon 
her  hill  without  thinking  of  her,  away  off  where  she 
has  been  made  prisoner.  The  fact  is,  there  is  no  place 
for  her  on  the  Palatine,  and  a  time  must  have  been 
when  she  was  even  more  unwelcome  there  than  she 
would  be  now.  Perhaps  she  was  the  first,  surely  not 
the  last,  of  ancestors  and  foster-parents  for  whom 
men  have  blushed.  The  emperors  did  not  deny  her, 
but  her  want  of  exclusiveness  was  a  thorn  in  the  flesh 
to  them.  When  one  is  riding  the  wave  of  fortune  one 
scarcely  loves  the  person  who  is  a  constant  reminder 
of  the  cabin  from  which  one  set  forth.  With  a  frag- 
ment of  the  wealth  that  has  been  amassed,  the  old 
parents  are  pensioned  off  on  condition  that  they  re- 
main at  home.  And  lucky  they  are  not  to  be  dis- 
owned entirely!  The  wolf  does  not  howl  when  she 
knows  that  she  has  received  the  most  that  men  can 
give  her  of  gratitude  and  remembrance.  The  Caesars 
considered  that  they  had  payed  her  sufficient  respect 
in  establishing  themselves  upon  the  mountain  where 
she  nursed  the  twins  who  founded  their  empire. 
Perhaps  they  thought  more  of  the  kings  than  of  the 
maternal  beast;  still  more,  no  doubt,  of  the  conven- 
tionalities, for  during  the  whole  of  the  Republic  the 
Palatine  was  the  elegant  quarter  of  Rome.  The 
Caesars  felt  no  doubt  that  they  were  doing  all  they 


THE   MAUSOLEUM  203 

could  ask  of  themselves  in  preserving  Romulus's 
cabin,  besides  modifying  the  history  of  the  wolf  nurs- 
ing the  two  twins  abandoned  to  the  floods  of  the 
Tiber  into  the  version  of  the  finding  of  the  twins  by 
the  shepherd  Faustulus — son  of  the  King  of  Egypt, 
no  doubt? — who  confided  them  to  the  care  of  his 
wife,  called  the  she-wolf  because  of  her  bad  ways. 
Apparently  it  was  more  respectable  for  the  Romans 
to  have  been  nursed  by  a  prostitute  than  by  a  dumb 
beast.  Then  those  proud  successors  of  the  Twins 
hastened  to  surround  the  cabin,  where  Romulus  must 
have  seen  some  strange  sights  as  a  child,  with  brilliant 
houses  suited  to  the  rank,  if  not  to  the  modest  origin 
of  their  inhabitants.  Gradually  the  cabin  disap- 
peared before  the  splendour  of  the  race,  just  as  the 
parvenu  relegates  the  paternal  furniture  to  his  garret, 
when  he  does  not  sell  it  outright. 

But  modern  Rome  neither  sells  nor  hides  anything 
of  her  advantageous  past.  She  cannot  re-establish  it, 
however,  so  she  wisely  takes  without  modification 
that  which  the  soil  gives  up.  Under  the  pickax 
the  Palatine  opens  up  an  imperial  quarter,  houses  of 
the  emperors,  nothing  else.  The  scholars  can  have 
no  temptation  to  drive  away  from  it  that  which  fled 
so  long  ago,  and  the  traveller  must  be  foolish  indeed 
not  to  take  what  is  here  for  him  without  trying  to 
ruin  the  ruins  under  the  pretext  of  finding  them  stained 
with  ingratitude.  We  cannot  forget  that  here  the 
Empire  lies  in  its  sepulchre. 

There  are  not  less  than  four  imperial  palaces  on  the 
Palatine ;  five,  say  those  who  still  attribute  to  the  two 


204  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

emperors  Augustus  and  Domitian  the  constructions 
which  archaeologists  of  our  own  day  place  to  the  glory 
of  Augustus  alone.  The  portion  left  to  him  without 
dispute  being  entirely  under  ground, — under  the 
gardens  of  the  Villa  Mills, — it  is  much  more  interesting 
to  suppose  that  the  other  part  which  we  can  see  is 
also  due  to  Augustus.  Domitian  does  not  mean  much 
to  us,  but  Augustus!  No  name  is  more  eloquent. 
The  dispute  will  come  to  an  end  no  doubt  when  the 
Italian  government  has  pulled  down  the  Villa  Mills 
and  opened  up  all  the  ruins,  already  somewhat  acces- 
sible, to  be  sure,  from  below.  And,  as  of  course  we 
want  to  show  that  we  have  some  knowledge  and  judg- 
ment of  the  things  we  are  looking  at,  let  us  extend  a 
friendly  hand  to  both  the  emperors,  and  enjoy  the 
beauty  of  the  things  which  are  so  real  and  so  interest- 
ing to  us,  uncertain  as  we  may  be  as  to  their  origin. 

The  Palatine  is  severe:  no  such  festival  of  marbles 
here  as  in  the  Forum.  More  ruined  than  the  Forum, 
too,  a  mere  empty  tomb  of  dead  brick,  yet  its  beauty 
takes  possession  of  me,  awakening  emotions  that  I 
have  never  felt  in  the  Forum.  There  I  am  exalted, 
here  I  feel  the  tenderness  of  a  child.  But  the  first 
and  real  aspect  of  the  hill  where  the  Empire  buried 
itself  in  a  winding-sheet  of  raving  pride  is  one  of  dry- 
ness,  the  dryness  of  a  skeleton.  The  Farnese  were 
the  authors  of  these  ruins.  When  the  emperors  left 
Rome  for  Constantinople  probably  they  took  with 
them  many  of  the  works  of  art  that  adorned  their 
palaces,  but  they  left  some.  Seventy  copies  of  Prax- 
iteles' Faun  in  Repose  have  been  found  while  the  origi- 


THE   MAUSOLEUM  205 

rial  remains  lost,  the  museums  of  Europe  are  burst- 
ing with  copies  whose  Greek  originals  are  not  to  be 
found.  Why?  Because  many  of  the  originals  being 
in  bronze  were  melted  up,  and  because  the  emperors, 
men  of  taste,  put  the  best  of  their  treasures  upon  the 
vessels  in  which  they  sailed  to  the  Bosphorous.  Un- 
able to  take  everything  with  them,  the  emperors, 
naturally,  left  the  copies  which  were  thus  preserved 
from  the  vandalism  of  the  Ottoman  massacres.  The 
Farnese  eagerly  dug  over  the  ground  of  the  half- 
covered  Palatine,  having  no  scruples  in  destroying 
the  brick  substructure  of  the  imperial  ruins  in  their 
eagerness  for  the  statues,  tablatures,  cornices,  pedi- 
ments, and  columns  of  marble  which  adorned  them  and 
were  royal  spoils  indeed  for  papal  churches,  palaces, 
and  villas — for  the  Vatican  and  for  Modena.  These 
out,  the  great  mansions  of  the  emperors  might  tumble 
in  a  heap  for  all  the  Farnese  cared.  If  we  wish  to 
know  how  they  were  furnished  we  must  visit  the 
Roman  museums,  the  Vatican,  and  go  to  Naples 
whither  Don  Carlos  transported  his  statues  when 
the  Treaty  of  Vienna  permitted  him  to  exchange  his 
Duchy  of  Modena  for  the  Kingdom  of  Naples  and 
Sicily.  x  Two  villas  rose  over  the  levelled  ruins  of  the 
Palatine :  the  Farnese,  which  still  covers  all  the  palace 
of  Tiberius,  and  the  Villa  Mills,  recently  bought  by  the 
state  and  whose  abandoned  condition  is  a  happy  indi- 
cation of  its  disappearance  in  the  not  distant  future. 

The  first  of  the  gardens  of  these  two  villas  is  a 
public  park  whose  trees  and  terraces  are  pleasant 

1  A  Fortnight  in  Naples,  chaps,  xv.  and  xvi. 


206  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


above  the  Forum.  Between  it  and  the  Mills  garden 
stands  that  part  of  the  House  of  Augustus  which  has 
already  been  laid  bare.  I  should  like  to  walk  through 
it  as  a  simple  Roman  citizen,  not  as  a  tourist.  The 
tourist  usually  makes  his  attack  informally  on  the 
side,  descending  from  the  Farnese  garden  to  which  he 
has  climbed  by  the  steps  that  have  been  made  from 
the  side  of  the  Forum.  Rather  than  take  this  mean- 
ingless way,  let  us  follow  the  Clivus  Victoriae,  passing 
under  the  formidable  arcades  which  probably  sup- 
ported the  palace  of  Caligula  or  constituted  the  sub- 
soil structure  of  Tiberius's  palace.  Let  us  take  a  look 
at  the  Forum  spread  out  at  our  feet  and  draw  from 
it  the  Roman  spirit  which  must  constitute  our  Roman 
citizenship,  and  then  turning  our  backs  to  pass  through 
the  low,  thick  grove,  we  gain  the  Clivus  Palatinus, 
the  road  which  mounted  from  the  Sacra  Via  to  the 
level  of  the  Temple  of  Jupiter  Stator,  there  where  the 
Arch  of  Titus  was  built.  Thus,  approached  by 
the  Area  Palatina,  that  is  to  say  by  the  great  public 
square  at  the  end  of  which  imperial  majesty  received 
the  homage  of  the  people  prone  before  them,  the 
Domus  Augustiana,  the  palace  of  Augustus,  or  Domus 
Flavia  of  Domitian,  is  seen  at  its  full  value.  It  is  but 
an  outline:  a  vast  quadrilateral  hardly  higher  than  a 
man,  the  interior  divided  by  walls,  brick  also,  into 
halls  of  unequal  grandeur  which  flank  a  great  central 
space.  Many  apartments  are  easily  recognized  and 
leave  no  room  to  doubt  their  use.  First,  in  the  middle, 
was  the  tablinum,  reception  hall,  where  clients  waited 
to  be  admitted  to  audience,  to  borrow  a  term  from 


THE    MAUSOLEUM  207 

Versailles,  it  was  the  (Eil-de-Bceuf  of  those  days.  On 
the  left  was  the  private  chapel,  lararium,  the  place  of 
the  gods,  lares.  On  the  right  was  the  tablinum  or  aud- 
ience hall  where  Augustus,  good  justice  of  the  peace, 
dealt  out  equity  to  those  who  brought  their  troubles 
to  him.  Behind  the  tablinum,  and  occupying  almost 
the  entire  width  of  the  building,  was  the  atrium  or 
peristylium,  the  beautiful  interior  garden  of  every 
Roman  house,  which  we  also  saw  in  the  Villa  Adriana. 
Behind  that  was  the  triclinium,  the  large  dining-hall, 
and  near  it  the  nymphaeum  or  summer  dining-room, 
with  its  elliptical  fountain,  all  surrounded  by  little 
rooms,  intimate  apartments  such  as  the  French,  at 
Versailles,  for  instance,  call  cabinets. 

It  is  open,  easily  understood,  and  I  have  not  exag- 
gerated the  bareness  of  it  in  omitting  to  mention  that 
some  pieces  of  marble  still  remain  to  decorate  this 
red  skeleton.  Now,  having  kept  myself  strictly  to  the 
bald  facts,  having  obeyed  Stendhal, — who  tells  us 
not  to  supplement  things,  who  hates  indirect  emotions: 
born  of  the  object  and  not  of  the  subject, — I  may,  at 
length,  say  what  I  feel.  Devastated  as  it  is,  the 
palace  of  Augustus  does  not  strike  me  as  bare.  The 
light  reinforcement  it  has  received  is  as  real  as 
the  dismemberment.  Where  shall  we  see  a  ruin  so 
respected,  so  thoughtfully  arranged?  It  has  been 
cleared  and  cleaned.  We  tread  the  real  pavements 
of  the  palace,  not  a  spear  of  grass  springing  up  between 
its  cracks  nor  a  bit  of  loose  stone  lying  about  upon 
which  to  turn  our  ankles.  As  of  old,  in  the  time  when 
it  had  walls  and  roofs  and  furniture,  an  army  of  ser- 


208  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

vants  must  pass  through  it  every  morning,  sweeping, 
dusting,  and  setting  it  in  order.  The  smallest  frag- 
ments have  been  carefully  placed  along  the  brick  base. 
In  the  basilica  the  bar  of  the  tribunal,  or  what  remains 
of  it,  has  been  raised  again  in  position.  In  the  atrium 
pieces  of  the  marble  facing  have  been  replaced  on 
the  walls.  In  the  triclinium  the  porphyry  pavement 
is  still  intact.  The  borders  of  the  nymphseum  are 
still  rounded  and  the  little  ship  still  floats  in  the  basin, 
a  flowering  bush,  as  in  the  time  when  diners  surrounded 
the  table  of  which  it  formed  the  finishing  touch  in  luxu- 
rious comfort.  We  cannot  but  admire  this  care,  so 
judicious,  so  different  from  that  which  has  been  given 
to  the  Forum.  It  is  good  to  see  the  disorder  created 
by  the  crowd  in  the  public  square  surrounded  by  the 
masses  of  great  buildings.  But  here,  in  the  house, 
everything  should  be  in  its  place,  as  it  is,  imparting 
a  feeling  of  intimacy  which  touches  the  tenderness  in 
us.  I  have  said  that  the  house  was  unencumbered, 
but  it  is  not  bare.  Besides  the  mural  decorations, 
have  been  found,  among  these  ruins  of  ruins,  quanti- 
ties of  little  motifs,  of  ornament,  which  seem  not  to 
belong  to  the  redressing  of  the  interior  nor  to  the 
exterior.  They  were  part  of  the  decoration  which 
have  entirely  disappeared:  balustrades,  little  columns, 
capitals,  the  small  objects  which  go  to  complete 
the  beauty  of  a  house.  They  have  been  gathered 
together  and  fixed  within  arm's  reach  upon  brick 
pylons  placed  here  and  there  with  studied  care,  though 
apparently  by  chance.  There  is  one  in  every  room, 
each  covered  with  little  things,  making  the  same  sort 


iffpl 


Anderson 


The  Palace  of  the  Caesars 


Anderson 


House  of  Domitian,  Palace  of  the  Caesars 


Anderson 

The  View  of  the  House  of  Domitian,  Palace  of  the  Caesars 


Anderson 


The  Palace  of  the  Caesars,  Circus  Maximus 


THE   MAUSOLEUM 


of  touching  appeal  to  our  hearts  as  the  little  cities  I 
spoke  of  the  other  day.  We  approach  them  with 
respect,  but  soon  find  ourselves  talking  to  them  inti- 
mately. Here  is  a  marble  slab,  made,  no  doubt,  to 
rest  above  a  door,  bearing  the  relief  of  a  dolphin  led 
by  a  love.  Here  is  an  arm,  the  plump  arm  of  a  child. 
Here,  a  little  capital  which  must  have  crowned  a  door- 
post; a  slender  column,  a  marble  spindle,  fragment  of 
a  balustrade,  ten,  twenty,  thirty  heads,  some  as  small 
as  a  fist,  others  larger,  even  to  life-size.  Not  a  pylon 
but  carries  three  or  four  of  them,  here  before  us,  on  a 
level  with  our  lips,  following  us  with  their  blind,  but 
piercing,  looks.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  we  find  our- 
selves turning  to  them,  asking  them  questions,  these 
pleasant  travelling  companions  scattered  among  so 
many  souvenirs.  Then  they  speak  of  all  the  grandeur 
and  all  the  miseries  that  were  unfolded  before  their 
dead  eyes  and  shut  lips.  What  do  they  not  tell! 
They  have  heard  Augustus  sigh,  have  listened  to  his 
prudence  and  his  hesitations.  They  knew  his  cun- 
ning heart  and  the  astonishment  that  he  never  over- 
came at  seeing  the  sad  Octavius  become  a  great  prince. 
They  laugh  at  us  a  little  for  having  taken  these  hypoc- 
risies seriously  and  because  they  know  of  his  contin- 
ual terror  at  seeing  escape  him  a  fortune  that  always 
frightened  him.  Propertius  might  make  Augustus 
— Vincit  Roma  fide  Phosbi — the  protector  of  Apollo, 
these  heads  were  never  deceived.  They  bid  me 
think  of  Livia's  modest  little  house  where  Augustus 
used  to  seek  the  mother  of  Drusus  and  Tiberius, 
the  virtue  and  simplicity  in  her  cottage  acting  like 
14 


A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


balance  wheels  to  him.  They  give  me  a  glimpse  of 
all  palaces  born  of  this  one,  explaining  them,  if  not 
justifying  them:  that  of  Tiberius,  the  incorruptible, 
who  ended  at  Capri,  that  of  the  madman  Caligula, 
of  the  Flavii  until  the  fall.  These  little  heads  have 
seen  everything,  they  know  all.  And  I  tell  them  my 
surprise  and  my  joy  at  finding  them  here  to  receive 
their  friendly  welcome  so  near  to  my  lips,  their  divine 
smile  above  these  open  tombs.  They  fill  this  Palatine 
of  the  beautiful  oaks  and  cypresses,  of  crumbled  walls 
and  ruined  palaces,  with  grace  and  untouched  youth, 
and  with  all  my  lover's  heart  for  Rome,  upon  the 
last  and  the  smallest  of  them  I  leave  a  kiss. 

With  feet  made  light  by  tenderness,  I  walk  about 
everywhere  among  these  dismantled  walls,  holes,  and 
brambles.  From  the  top  of  the  steps  of  the  Temple 
of  Jupiter,  I  look  at  the  panorama  across  the  Tiber 
where  Saint  Peter's  and  Garibaldi  dispute  precedence 
as  they  will  continue  to  do  until  the  day  soon  to  come 
when  modern  Italy  will  be  so  freed  from  her  passions 
that  she  can  divide  her  grandeur  between  her  two 
fathers.  I  have  gone  down  to  the  niches  of  the  Paeda- 
gogium  and  climbed  back  again  to  the  exedra  of  the 
Circus  Maximus,  made  my  way  into  the  majestic 
Stadium,  almost  as  full  as  the  Forum  of  marble  debris. 
I  have  burrowed  under  the  grounds  of  the  Villa  Mills 
where  still  sleep  the  vaultings  of  the  second  house  of 
Augustus.  By  way  of  Septimius  Severus's  palace  I 
have  gained  the  terrace  from  which  I  see  theCampagna, 
where  round  up  the  elephantine  arches  of  the  Thermae 
of  Caracalla,  where,  against  the  background  of  the 


THE   MAUSOLEUM  211 

Sabine  Mountains  stands  out  the  circular  body  of  the 
tomb  of  Caecilia  Metella.  This  walk  must  be  taken 
with  guide-book  in  hand :  it  is  not  for  me  to  name  and 
number  all  there  is  to  see  here,  nor  can  pen  describe 
them  in  mass  or  in  detail  so  overwhelming  is  their 
beauty  as  a  whole.  The  eye  measures  grand  lines  of 
stripped  brick,  and  who  can  paint  those  yawning 
arches?  I  find  confirmation  here  upon  the  ideas  on 
certain  points  of  art  that  I  gleaned  from  the  Villa 
Adriana.  The  Palatine  was  built  up,  no  doubt, 
successively  from  the  time  of  Augustus  to  that  of 
Severus,  and  even  when  Augustus  began  to  build,  the 
hill  was  so  occupied  with  houses  that  he  could  not 
spread  out  his  own  as  he  might  have  done.  His  suc- 
cessors, who  ordinarily  were  not  troubled  by  scruples 
against  demolishing  whatever  they  did  not  like,  might 
have  worked  out  an  harmonious  whole,  if  they  had 
wished  to.  But  they  never  thought  of  such  a  thing. 
Five  palaces  succeeded  one  another  in  disorder,  one 
riding  another,  unequally  separated,  in  a  word  each 
one  for  itself  with  no  thought  of  general  equilibrium 
nor  of  its  neighbour  unless  it  might  be  convenient  to 
lean  upon  it.  We  saw  this  still  more  strikingly,  as 
the  work  of  one  man,  the  architecture  of  one  period, 
in  the  Villa  Adriana.  Here  on  the  Palatine,  however, 
the  Romans  seem  to  have  been  more  violently  seized 
than  was  Hadrian  by  the  passion  for  symmetry  in  a 
single  building.  The  palace  is  square,  with  the  central 
court,  the  apartments  equally  distributed  and  divided 
all  around  the  rectangle,  nothing  out  of  proportion, 
no  room  cutting  away  what  justly  belongs  to  another, 


A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


and,  except  in  the  basilica  and  the  nymphaeum,  the 
eye  encounters  only  right  angles.  Everything  is 
lined  to  a  drawn  cord  and  arranged  in  perfect  order. 
The  plan,  too,  is  invariable,  exception  perhaps  being 
in  the  palace  of  Septimius  Severus  who  made  some- 
what freer  use  than  the  others  of  the  apse  and  the 
arch,  yet  maintained  the  customary  respect  for  build- 
ing in  symmetrical  slices.  Now,  how  do  the  scholars 
explain  this  contradiction  in  the  Romans,  their  mani- 
fest indifference  to  the  well-ordered  arrangement  of 
numbers  of  buildings  together,  who  think  nothing 
of  the  jumble  of  houses  revealed  by  the  excavations  of 
the  Forum,  who  permit  all  the  rules  of  harmony  to 
be  broken  that  momentary  convenience  or  passing 
fancy  may  have  its  way  with  each  structure  without 
reference  to  the  others,  yet  who,  the  moment  a  house, 
great  or  small,  is  under  consideration  for  itself  alone, 
they  are  possessed  with  a  sort  of  madness  for  order 
and  proportion,  subjecting  it  all,  even  to  the  most 
intimate  apartments,  to  the  square  and  compass. 

These  are  but  small  problems,  however,  beside  the 
great  lesson  taught  by  the  Palatine,  this  imperial 
tomb.  The  pleasure  we  have  here  comes  less  easily, 
less  promptly  than  the  enjoyment  we  have  found 
elsewhere  in  Rome.  We  must  wait  for  the  emotion 
which  arises  from  the  depths  of  our  being,  fruit  of  the 
noblest  rather  than  of  the  most  pleasing  qualities  of 
the  soul.  But  when  it  comes,  it  is  powerful  and  fills 
us  with  a  serious  joy.  Nowhere  else  in  Rome  does 
one  feel  so  clearly  the  impression  of  vigour,  force, 
energy,  physical  and  moral.  The  most  timid  human- 


THE    MAUSOLEUM  213 

ity  cannot  fail  to  be  exalted  by  such  formidable 
masses  as  these  works  of  men.  The  Palatine  is  a 
great  school  of  noble  inspiration  and  human  pride. 
Come  here  day  after  day  if  you  want  to  perfect  your- 
self in  the  way  of  necessary  and  fertile  effort.  If  the 
builders  of  these  palaces,  in  an  age  of  limited  and 
primitive  resources,  could  realize  work  so  colossal  and 
with  such  an  air  of  majesty,  testimony  of  the  boldness 
and  the  mental  poise  of  the  builders;  if,  indeed,  those 
people  were  great  enough  thus  to  build  up  the  Palatine, 
the  proof  they  give  us  is  that  man  has  but  to  will 
firmly  to  succeed.  Let  us  lift  our  heads,  and  be  like 
them,  strong,  bold,  conscientious,  and  free.  We 
have  but  to  will  to  be  worthy  of  our  fathers  and  to 
enter  proudly  the  walls  that  will  recognize  us.  Let 
us  work !  Let  us  lift  our  souls  toward  beauty,  toward 
justice  and  radiance!  Our  youth  should  be  able  to 
attain  the  heights  that  the  Roman  age  crowned  with 
such  ease.  The  Palatine,  dry  as  it  is,  tells  with  all  its 
stones  what  attainments  may  be  reached  by  a  people 
without  great  talent,  without  or  almost  without  artistic 
genius  to  help  them,  but  with  tenacity,  with  good 
judgment  and  with  great  culture.  Rome  was  a  real- 
istic rather  than  a  visionary  nation,  gifted  with  a 
remarkable  political  sense,  and  which  from  the  first 
knew  how  to  give  to  art  and  to  all  the  arts  their  due 
place.  By  them  she  developed  her  genius  and  sur- 
vived her  overwhelming  catastrophies,  quite  as  much 
as  by  the  force  of  her  social  organization.  Is  not  that 
which  she  was  able  to  do  then  within  the  power  of 
men  today?  The  ruins  of  the  Roman  decadence  on 


214  A-  MONTH  IN  ROME 

the  Palatine  are  a  comfort  and  a  support  to  our 
maturity. 

Having  crossed  the  valley  from  the  Palatine,  I  have 
come  to  pass  the  last  hours  of  the  day  on  the  side  of 
the  Aventine.  In  all  the  niches  of  the  Septizonium, 
among  the  cypresses  of  the  Villa  Mills  the  Caesars 
lift  their  phantoms,  born  of  the  mist  which  rises  from 
the  depths  where  the  Circus  Maximus  is  lost  from 
sight.  The  depths  in  which  they  lie  as  the  inevit- 
able result  of  their  wish  to  absorb  the  magnificent 
development  which  they  should  have  been  contented 
to  direct  is  a  last  lesson.  And  over  there  Saint  Peter's, 
flaming  under  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  offers  the 
same  testimony.  Garibaldi  whose  fine  silhouette 
dominates  the  Janiculum  and  turns  with  the  victorious 
air  which  is  not  that  of  a  victor,  toward  the  Vatican 
hill  proclaims  what  a  man  or  a  people  may  gain  when 
the  ideal,  once  awakened,  is  tenaciously  cherished 
without  weakness.  One  day  Garibaldi  seemed  to 
sacrifice  his  ideal  when  he  "obeyed,"  but  from  his 
renunciation  came  unity  in  the  Savoy  monarchy,  the 
embrace  of  all  Italy,  reconstructed  at  length,  and 
the  prodigious  fortune  of  Savoy  is  not  the  least  of 
the  lesson  of  what  may  be  obtained  by  perseverance, 
confidence  in  the  genius  of  the  race,  and  by  force  of 
will. 


SeventeentH  Day 

MICHELANGELO'S  GREAT 
INVENTION 

TKe  Capitol 

NE  cannot  separate  in  mind,  more  than 
can  be  separated  in  history,  the  Sabine 
Capitol,  the  Albine  Palatine,  and  the 
valley  of  the  Forum  where  the  two 
tribes  came  down  from  these  hills 
and  fought,  became  reconciled  and  started  forth  on 
the  conquest  of  the  world.  The  Sabine  citadel  be- 
came common  property,  and  it  was  perhaps  after  all 
in  memory  of  the  compact  that  the  wolf  was  brought 
one  day  from  the  Palatine  to  the  rock  of  Tatius  which 
she  inhabits  to  this  hour.  But,  with  all  the  good  will 
in  the  world,  the  traveller  who  comes  up  to  the  Capitol 
cannot  think  himself  in  the  heroic  times  whose  origin 

215 


216  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

was  traced  to  Saturn  opposite  to  whom  the  Palatine 
raised  Hercules.  The  Capitol -has  nothing  to  link  it 
to  the  ruins  of  the  Forum  and  of  the  Palatine.  In 
the  place  of  the  Arx,  the  ancient  citadel,  on  the  north, 
is  the  Church  of  the  Aracceli;  in  the  place  of  the 
Temple  of  Jupiter  is  the  Palazzo  Caffarelli;  in  the 
place  of  the  Tabularium  is  the  Palazzo  del  Senatore. 
The  shelter  of  Romulus  might,  perhaps,  inspire  us  if 
Marcus  Aurelius,  who  is  in  the  centre,  was  not  there 
to  say  to  us :  "How  all  things  disappear  in  a  short  time, 
bodies  upon  the  breast  of  the  world,  their  memory 
upon  the  breast  of  the  ages!  All  pain,  pleasure, 
admiration,  everything  is  vain,  to  be  despised.  All 
is  disgust,  corruption,  death!" 

The  old  Capitol,  witness  of  the  whole  Roman  glory, 
is  dead  indeed.  We  must  not  hasten,  however,  to 
attribute  the  ruin  of  the  ancient  hill  to  ingratitude. 
On  the  contrary,  the  Capitol  only  has  resisted  the  cata- 
clysms which  overcame  three  or  four  of  the  Roman  civ- 
ilizations. It  is  still  the  centre  of  the  city,  the  aedile 
is  still  seated  upon  his  plateau.  What  the  Capi- 
tol is  now  it  has  always  been,  adapted  to  the 
needs  of  the  ages.  The  men  of  today  have  preserved 
that  which  the  seventeenth  century  transmitted  to 
them  because  the  seventeenth  century  conceived 
with  an  idea  of  grandeur  the  structures  in  which  we 
love  to  walk.  This  grandeur  is  the  more  impossi- 
ble to  equal  in  that  it  is  the  work  of  Michelangelo. 
Buonarotti  stamped  whatever  he  touched  with  such 
a  mark  that  the  rashest  of  defacers  stop  at  the  very 
beginning  when  they  undertake  to  tamper  with  his 


MICHELANGELO'S  GREAT  INVENTION         217 

work.  They  might  turn  the  bridle  of  Castor  and 
Pollux,  build  up  the  tower  and  put  a  clock  in  it, 
decorate  the  Palace  of  the  Senator  to  exaggeration, 
but  the  steps,  Marcus  Aurelius,  and  the  double 
staircase  still  show  the  master  hand. 

Has  not  too  much  honour  been  paid  to  the  Baroque; 
have  I  not  myself  gone  too  far  in  attributing  to  it  the 
discovery  and  occupation  of  space?  When  Bernini 
was  born  Michelangelo  had  been  dead  twenty-five 
years,  and  some  sixty  years  when  Bernini  built  the 
colonnade.  The  generations  have  had  time  to  study 
the  invention  of  the  old  master,  and  they  seem  to  have 
profited  by  it,  since  none  of  those  who  were  charged 
with  finishing  the  Capitol  have  dared  to  touch  the 
primitive  plan.  Michelangelo  formulated  the  law, 
set  the  example;  they  have  obeyed  and  followed. 
The  church  on  the  Vatican  could  not  serve  as  a  model 
here.  Space  is  not  left  frankly  here ;  it  is  dissimulated 
under  proportions  which  annihilate  it,  whereas  the 
Baroque  advertises  its  space.  And  while  the  Baroque 
takes  possession  of  space,  it  does  nothing  but  apply 
to  church  interiors  the  exterior  model  given  on  the 
Capitol  by  Michelangelo;  it  brings  into  prominence 
that  which  Bramante,  in  a  certain  measure,  used  to 
hide. 

The  Via  Aracceli  ends  in  a  flight  of  broad  steps 
bordered  by  balustrades  whose  lower  pilasters  carry 
two  crouching  sphinxes  and  upon  whose  upper  pilas- 
ters stand  Castor  and  Pollux  holding  their  horses  by 
the  head.  These  broad  steps  lead  to  the  little  piazza 
so  perfectly  adapted  by  Michelangelo  to  the  smallness 


2i8  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

of  the  natural  conditions  and  the  greatness  of  the 
historical  needs  that  it  seems  much  larger  than  it  is. 
With  the  exception  of  a  few  details,  such  as  the  too 
low  fountain  and  the  too  high  campanile  which  are 
not  his,  all  is  in  the  true  proportions,  the  harmony 
of  Buonarotti's  plan.  And  what  is  there?  Merely 
three  medium-sized  palaces,  two  at  the  side,  one  across 
the  end  of  the  square.  That  stands  high,  on  the 
defensive;  the  other  two,  on  the  ground  level,  are 
of  open,  cordial  aspect;  but  all  three  are  brothers 
with  the  same  pilasters  and  engaged  columns,  born 
of  one  inspiration  from  the  earth  to  the  roof  balus- 
trades above  their  cornices.  That  is  all.  The  statue 
of  Marcus  Aurelius  in  the  centre  of  the  square  seems 
to  keep  those  palpitating  stones  at  a  distance  from 
his  majesty ;  they  do  not  give  the  least  suggestion  of 
crushing  the  statue,  nor  the  statue  of  relieving  the 
walls.  Between  them  the  air  moves  freely  and  the 
sunlight  pours  over  all.  Unlike  Verrocchio  and  Dona- 
tello,  who  perched  the  Colleone  and  the  Gattamelata 
ladder-high,  Michelangelo  placed  this  antique  eques- 
trian statue  on  a  base  so  low  as  to  suggest  a  mere  rise 
in  the  ground.  We  have  Marcus  Aurelius  close  by. 
The  breeze  that  ruffles  his  tunic  caresses  us  at  the 
same  time;  and,  as  his  dignity  keeps  back  the  stifling 
walls,  so  the  very  accessibility  of  his  hand  forbids 
familiarity.  This  low  statue  fixes  the  distances  and, 
with  the  corresponding  palaces,  makes  the  square 
majestic. 

Michelangelo  loved  the  defiance  of  his  materials; 
and  more  unfavourable  ground  was  never  offered  to 


MICHELANGELO'S  GREAT  INVENTION         219 

his  restless  genius.  Everything  was  against  him. 
Two  or  three  palaces  were  already  built,  the  space 
at  his  disposition  ridiculously  exacting,  the  declivity 
jeering  at  the  idea  of  adapting  it  to  monumental 
steps.  How  could  the  grandeur  of  spirit  which  was  to 
evoke  the  Capitol  take  flight  in  these  cramped  condi- 
tions? Genius  answered,  "by  a  tour  de  force"  It 
did  not  begin  by  setting  straight  the  first  of  the  existing 
palaces,  that  of  the  Conservatori,  on  the  right,  which 
was  built  obliquely;  but  by  building  another,  on  the 
left,  with  an  equal  slant,  making  the  two  trend  toward 
the  same  point,  thus  giving  the  effect  of  prolongation, 
and  at  the  same  time  of  adding  to  the  apparent  length 
of  the  limited  space  between  them.  At  the  end,  the 
little  square  was  cut  off  by  the  Palazzo  del  Senatore, 
and  that  was  raised  first,  then  pushed  back  in  appear- 
ance by  the  artifice  of  a  long  double  flight  of  steps 
built  against  the  ground  storey  to  hide  its  ugliness. 
The  old  refuge  of  Romulus,  the  little  space  of  ground 
that  the  legendary  fig  tree  must  have  shaded  com- 
pletely, and  which  the  three  buildings  might  so  easily 
have  turned  into  the  bottom  of  a  well,  Michelangelo 
made  vast  by  the  architectural  arrangement  of  the 
statue.  And  the  narrow  and  short  declivity  of  the  hill 
he  widened  by  broad  steps  and  lengthened  in  effect 
by  rectilinear  balustrades.  So  were  the  limitations  of 
the  site  overcome,  and  the  requirements  of  the  histori- 
cal centre  of  the  modern  world  were  satisfied  by  exact 
dimensions,  the  right  heights,  well-calculated  profiles, 
space  amplified  without  trickery,  and  the  happy 
relation  of  all  things  to  one  another. 


220  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

After  having  conceived  and  realized  the  beauty  of 
space,  Michelangelo  added  unto  that  invention  an- 
other: the  monumental  ensemble.  How  often  have 
we  been  struck  by  the  fact  that  up  to  the  seventeenth 
century  there  existed  in  Italy  no  sense  of  the  harmoni- 
ous grouping  of  buildings,  no  recognition  of  corre- 
spondence made  by  the  nearness  of  one  monument 
to  another.  On  the  Palatine  the  palaces  are  heaped 
one  upon  another  haphazard.  The  Forum  is  helter- 
skelter  of  arches,  altars,  and  columns ;  when  they  were 
all  in  place  they  must  have  looked  as  if  they  had  come 
up  of  themselves.  The  Villa  Adriana  is  a  confusion 
of  distinct  and  even  joined  houses.  No  order,  never 
any  gleam  of  prearrangement,  illuminates  them;  the 
buildings  stick  together,  clamp  one  on  another  in 
absolute  independence,  each  for  itself.  The  palace 
without  fagade,  which  the  Vatican  has  remained  to 
this  day,  is  altogether  Roman  in  that :  the  popes  could 
excuse  themselves  for  it  on  the  score  of  avat;.sm.  In 
fact  we  are  well  acquainted  by  this  time  with  the 
Romans'  custom  of  setting  their  buildings  side  by 
side  with  no  thought  of  balancing  them,  still  less  of 
making  them  appropriate  to  the  site  they  occupied, 
natural  or  ideal. 

Read  the  list  of  the  monuments  that  have  been 
built  on  this  little  Mons  Capitolium ;  it  will  make  you 
dizzy.  Michelangelo  saw  at  once  that,  having  to 
make  a  little  village  square  hold  the  entire  history  of 
Rome,  he  could  only  do  so  by  unity  of  arrangement 
and  of  decoration.  The  idea  which  time  always  sim- 
plifies, must,  he  knew,  be  born  simple  and  nude,  and 


MICHELANGELO'S  GREAT  INVENTION         221 

he  found  the  architectural  whole  which  was  the  perfect 
expression  of  it.  For  the  first  time  he  made  here  three 
palaces  which  did  not  exist  each  for  itself,  but  all  for 
the  common  beauty.  They  sustain  one  another,  as 
inseparable  as  the  several  wings  of  a  castle.  The 
three  are  held  together  by  their  style,  while  their 
differences  in  detail  save  them  from  monotony. 
Marcus  Aurelius  in  their  centre  is  the  axis  upon  which 
they  are  balanced  and  which  supports  them.  And 
they,  statue  and  all,  are  held  in  their  place  by  the 
balustrades,  commanded  by  Castor  and  Pollux,  and 
above  which  appear  the  trophies  of  Marius  and  the 
statues  of  Constantine  and  Constantia.  The  Piazza. 
del  Campidoglio  is  as  great  a  commemorative  monu- 
ment by  reason  of  the  double  invention  of  its  art 
as  in  its  historical  importance. 

Let  us  render  to  Michelangelo  the  justice  that,  for 
this  work,  has  never  been  given  to  him.  He  endowed 
art  with  two  new  sources  so  fertile  that  they  are 
drawn  from  to  this  day.  Nothing  but  space  and  the  en- 
semble have  yet  been  found  to  affirm  power  and  assure 
effect;  grandeur  is  not  possible  without  space  and  a 
harmonious  whole.  Among  so  many  great  architects, 
it  was  Michelangelo  alone  who  made  this  fertile  dis- 
covery. He  demonstrated  its  truth  with  frankness 
and  loyalty,  without  artifice  either  in  basements  or 
terraces,  holding  himself,  indeed  submitting  himself, 
to  the  defective  equations  of  the  problem  that  he  had 
to  solve.  In  the  case  of  Saint  Peter's  where  the  ques- 
tion was  but  to  diminish  the  given  space,  ability  had 
full  swing.  On  the  Capitol  every  obstacle  rose,  since 


222  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


much  must  be  made  of  nothing,  and  these  difficulties 
he  surmounted  in  realizing  that  great  masterpiece, 
and  apparently  doing  nothing  new.  The  Capitol  has 
none  of  the  grandiloquence  of  the  colonnades  of  the 
Vatican;  it  is  majestic,  but  restrained.  It  does  not 
take  us  captive  by  any  burst  of  wonder,  especially 
by  any  roundness — so  useful  in  deceiving  the  eye. 
His  lines  are  straight,  clean,  and  pure.  He  wins  us 
gradually,  doing  us  no  violence;  accessible,  as  he  is, 
only  to  those  who  question  as  they  look.  He  has  the 
coquetry  of  perfect  beauty,  sure  of  itself,  which  con- 
sists in  presenting  a  noble  idea  in  impeccable  form 
with  modest  bearing. 

The  church  of  Santa  Maria  in  Aracceli  Michelangelo 
left  out  of  his  plan.  It  was  then  and  is  still  dear  to  the 
Romans  on  account  of  the  summit  it  occupies,  said,  in 
his  day,  to  have  been  the  site  of  the  Temple  of  Jupiter, 
although  today  the  preference  puts  the  Art  there  and 
the  Temple  on  the  other  side,  in  the  Caffarelli  gardens. 
Temple  or  citadel,  the  place  is  sacred,  and  the  church 
commemorates  great  things.  Michelangelo  could  not 
touch  it,  nor  make  use  of  it  because  of  the  distance  at 
which  it  stood  from  the  centre  imposed  by  his  group 
of  buildings.  So  he  hid  it  from  his  Piazza,  del  Campi- 
doglio  and  built  a  separate  flight  of  monumental 
steps  to  it  from  the  Via  Aracceli.  These  steps  are 
so  terrifying  that  we  prefer  to  enter  the  church  by 
the  side  door,  reached  by  a  pleasanter  way  from  be- 
tween the  Capitol  Museum  and  the  Palace  of  the 
Senator.  Although  one  of  the  oldest  churches  of 
Rome,  the  Christian  legends  attached  to  the  Aracceli 


Anderson 


Campidoglio 


Anderson 


Capitoline  Wolf 


O 
g 

N 

<a 
S 


MICHELANGELO'S  GREAT  INVENTION         223 

have  been  fatal  to  the  conservation  of  its  primitive 
form.  It  was  here  that  Augustus,  come  to  consult 
the  Sibyl  upon  the  choice  of  his  successor,  was  sur- 
prised to  learn  from  her  that  the  birth  of  a  child  in 
Judea  rendered  his  anxiety  as  to  the  next  emperor 
superfluous,  the  child  having  the  power  to  take  charge 
of  the  world  henceforth.  The  prophecy  was  fulfilled 
and,  on  the  proud  Capitol,  a  church  was  built  to 
commemorate  the  spot  where  the  Sibyl  had  spoken, 
and  was  called  Ara  Cceli,  altar  of  heaven.  There  is 
no  resisting  such  traditions.  The  past  crushes  things 
as  well  as  men.  Illustrious  churches  sometimes  have 
the  fate  of  illustrious  families  dishonoured  by  the 
grandsons  who  think  that  anything  is  permissible 
to  them  in  virtue  of  their  names.  In  this  Christian 
temple,  where  the  worshippers  must  have  so  often 
mocked  Jupiter  and  Juno,  I  have  just  seen,  in  a  niche, 
covered  by  a  glass  globe,  a  little  statue  of  the  Infant 
Jesus  covered  with  precious  stones  and  surrounded  by 
lights.  At  his  feet  lie  envelopes  well  sealed,  stamped, 
and  postmarked.  I  am  told  that  the  Bambino  re- 
ceives letters  from  the  end  of  the  world.  Some  women 
approach  and  a  clerk  raises  his  arm  to  a  hidden  mech- 
anism, and  the  Bambino  advances  toward  us  upon  his 
little  carriage,  with  his  glass  globe,  his  gewgaws,  and 
his  correspondence,  while  the  good  women  cross 
themselves. 

The  Aracceli  is  not  rich  only  in  its  moving  idol. 
Tombs,  frescoes,  and  some  remarkable  decorations 
make  it,  together  with  the  Minerva  and  the  Popolo, 
among  the  richest  churches  in  Rome.  The  notable 


224  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

frescoes  are  those  by  Pinturicchio.  Among  the  tombs, 
it  is  worth  while  to  look  for  those  signed  by  Sansovino, 
Bregno,  and  Donatello;  among  the  decorations,  see 
the  ambones  by  the  Cosmati  and  the  columns.  It  is 
always  worth  while  to  look  at  the  columns  in  the 
Roman  churches,  but  they  seem  more  desolate  here 
than  elsewhere,  perhaps,  where  certain,  if  not  all,  of 
them  have  never  budged  from  that  temple, — whether 
it  was  to  Jupiter  or  to  Juno  Moneta, — twenty-two 
of  them,  of  beautiful  blue  granite,  seeming  to  lament 
their  misfortune  to  be  fixed  in  darkness  by  the  Chris- 
tian religion  when  they  were  cut  for  the  sunlight  of  a 
portico. 

It  does  not  take  long  to  see  the  Aracceli,  nor  even  to 
take  in  what  Michelangelo  made  of  the  Capitol;  but 
to  place  the  collections  of  the  two  palaces  in  one's 
memory  days  of  careful  study  are  not  enough.  Their 
marbles  and  bronzes  are  among  the  most  important 
antique  statuary.  Greece  and  Rome  shine  here  as 
brilliantly  as  in  the  Vatican  or  the  Thermae.  The 
Dying  Gladiator,  the  Thorn  Extractor,  the  Satyr  -with 
the  Grapes,  the  innumerable  busts  of  the  emperors  and 
the  great  writers  of  Greece,  the  Capitoline  Venus,  from 
the  Venus  of  Cnidus  by  Praxiteles,  known  to  us  from 
coins,  the  bust  of  Brutus,  the  sarcophagi,  the  bas- 
reliefs,  the  statue  of  Agrippina,  the  Esquiline  Venus, 
the  most  charming  body  of  a  young  girl  that  chisel 
has  ever  shaped;  then  the  Consular  Tabularium,  the 
marble  Plan  of  Rome,  the  Marforio,  the  Wolf,  too, 
without  counting  the  minor  objects,  vases,  jewels, 
utensils,  all  rank  together  in  the  memory  with  the 


MICHELANGELO'S  GREAT  INVENTION         225 

most  moving  pieces  of  the  Papal  and  the  National 
Museums.  Here  I  am  taught  again  the  lessons  I 
learned  in  the  Vatican  and  the  Thermae,  precious 
lessons,  confirmed,  developed,  made  more  clear. 
The  Capitoline  Museum  has  had  the  same  origin  as 
the  other  two:  the  Roman  soil;  they  cannot  speak 
another  language,  but  they  enrich  the  vocabulary. 
It  was  formed  gradually  by  the  popes  out  of  the  pieces 
that  they  rejected  from  their  palace  for  obscure 
reasons  in  which  intrinsic  beauty  surely  had  no  part. 
Certain  of  them,  however,  were  bestowed  out  of  fine 
feeling,  as  when  Sixtus  IV.  gave  the  bronze  Wolf  and 
that  treasure  from  Olympus,  the  Thorn  Extractor,  to 
the  City  of  Rome,  although  the  popes  were  under  the 
attraction  of  modern  Italian  art — the  Quattrocento 
was  then  in  full  flight — until  Julius  II.  He  was  the 
first  of  them  to  understand  the  miracle  of  the  antique 
and  to  do  it  justice.  During  three  centuries  the 
Roman  collections  were  enriched  by  glorious  master- 
pieces, at  length  classified  and  set  forth  by  royal  Rome 
with  as  much  loving  care  as  ever  papal  Rome  bestowed 
upon  them. 

The  two  palaces  of  the  Capitol  and  the  Conservatori 
are  to  be  visited  without  haste  and  untiringly.  The 
first  contains  general  works.  Napoleon  drew  freely 
from  it,  and  when  France  had  to  restore  what  he  had 
taken,  it  was  found  that  his  selection  included  nothing 
essential  to  the  history  of  Rome.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  Palazzo  dei  Conservatori  is  especially  Roman: 
the  Wolf  enthroned  in  the  hall  of  the  asdiles,  Junius 
Brutus,  Canova's  Pius  VII. ,  the  Roman  magistrates, 
is 


226  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

besides  the  vases,  terra-cottas,  Etruscan  and  Latin 
antiques,  a  bronze  chariot,  a  chair,  a  bed,  jewels,  and 
Revolutionary  relics  of  Garibaldi.  I  have  especial 
pleasure  in  the  picture  galleries  where  all  the  mani- 
festations of  the  Italian  school  are  represented  by 
excellent  examples:  Titian,  Tintoretto,  Veronese, 
Carracci,  Guido  Reni,  Caravaggio,  Dosso-Dossi, 
Garofalo,  and  Lo  Spagna.  Each  of  them  reminds  me 
of  delightful  days  passed  in  Venetia,  ^Emilia,  and  Um- 
bria.  From  Umbria,  especially,  I  find  again,  and 
with  what  joy,  he  who  pleases  me  more  than  all  the 
others:  Giovanni  di  Pietro,  called  Lo  Spagna.  Nine 
panels  present  the  nine  Muses  with  some  of  that 
freedom  of  drawing,  that  firmness  of  accentuation, 
that  vigorous  expression,  that  frankness  of  light,  and 
that  charm  of  colour  which  are  the  hall-mark  of  the 
greatest  of  the  Umbrians.  Here  in  Rome,  he  is  seen 
in  his  full  mastery,  in  all  his  superiority. 

Oh,  I  see,  of  course,  that  these  Muses  are  a  little 
affected  and  not  very  much  Muses  in  fact.  We  are 
a  long  way  from  Praxiteles  with  so  many  attributes, 
decorations,  and  such  sweetness;  but  so  great  is  their 
charm  that  we  do  not  think  of  them  as  subjects,  we 
think  only  of  these  lightly  graceful  women,  so  prettily 
dressed  and  undressed,  so  sumptuously  entwined  with 
their  veils.  There  is  on  the  shoulders  and  about  the 
loins  of  Clio  an  emerald  tunic  worthy  of  Aphrodite 
rising  from  the  briny  waves.  If  Lo  Spagna  had  never 
done  anything  but  draw  the  folds  and  paint  the  re- 
flecting tints  of  this  tunic  he  would  deserve  our  bless- 
ings. For  his  sake,  we  can  forgive  the  Umbrian 


MICHELANGELO'S  GREAT  INVENTION         227 

School,  and  also  for  the  sake  of  his  friend,  the  divine 
and  pure  Rafaello  Sanzio;  they  make  us  forget  the 
Nellis  and  the  Peruginos. 

Taine,  on  coming  out  of  the  Capitol,  where  he  had 
seen  all  these  many  beautiful  bodies  under  draperies 
that  take  their  supple  forms,  and  feeling  his  heart 
contract  with  jealousy  of  Michelet's  fistule,  exclaimed: 
"The  great  change  in  history  was  the  coming  of 
trousers."  In  the  history  of  the  traveller  there  is  a 
change  as  great  as  that,  which  comes  when  he  has 
felt  the  antique  and  seized  the  sense  of  perfect  beauty, 
which  Michelangelo  and  Raphael  of  Umbria  have 
continued  to  transmit,  carrying  the  torch  to  us. 


Eighteenth  Day 

THE  FORNARINA 
The  Farnesina  and  Pamfili  Villas 

HE  reputation  of  the  Trastevere  has 
not  been  usurped.  When  Rome  set 
forth  to  make  war  on  those  of  her 
neighbours  who  rebelled  at  her  do- 
minion, nine  times  out  of  ten  she 
crossed  the  Tiber  and  began  by  tramping  over  the 
terraced  fields  along  the  Janiculum.  The  Traste- 
vere was  the  first  stage  on  the  route  of  the  Veii  who, 

228 


THE  FORNARINA  229 


for  their  part,  when  they  repulsed  the  attacks  of  the 
Romans,  followed  up  their  victories  to  the  banks  of 
the  Tiber,  sacking  the  suburb  before  leaving  it.  In 
all  countries  the  border  people  are  rough  and  poor. 
They  keep  the  blood  of  their  race  pure,  since  others 
have  no  desire  to  share  their  poverty  or  to  live  and 
keep  those  whom  they  love  exposed  to  the  constant 
dangers  of  invading  or  passing  armies. 

Today  the  Trastevere  has  some  palaces,  one  of 
which,  the  Villa  Farnesina,  is  illustrious,  and,  it 
seems  to  me  a  palace  that  the  ancient  quarter  is  not 
unduly  proud  of,  certainly  not  more  so  than  is  profit- 
able. The  glory  of  the  Trastevere  is  made  entirely 
out  of  its  ruggedness  and  the  tatters  with  which  it 
drapes  the  rough  and  muscular  bodies  of  its  children. 

The  Fornarina  was  a  daughter  of  this  Roman 
border.  Was  it  really  she  whom  Sebastiano  del 
Piombo  painted  in  that  portrait  at  Florence  to 
which  Raphael's  name  has  so  long  been  assigned? 
Before  changing  the  author  the  arbitrary  authorities 
should  have  changed  the  model.  That  beautiful, 
plump  Venetian  bears  no  resemblance  to  the  Forna- 
rina of  the  Barberini.  Sebastiano's  relations  with 
Raphael,  to  whom  he  did  such  an  ill  turn  with  Michel- 
angelo, could  hardly  have  inspired  Raphael  to  paint 
his  enemy's  mistress.  They  have  done  well  to  attri- 
bute the  portrait,  the  glory  of  the  Uffizi's  Tribune, 
to  Sebastiano,  if  it  is  his ;  they  would  do  better  not  to 
longer  inflict  such  a  contradiction  upon  so  irreducible 
an  adversary. 

I  cannot  say  that  in  strolling  about  the  Trastevere 


230  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

I  have  often  met  Raphael's  Fornarina  of  the  Barberini 
Palace.  That  would  be  too  much,  although  she  has 
the  right  look  for  this  muscular  quarter.  Not  par- 
ticularly beautiful,  the  Fornarina  is  a  strong,  almost  a 
big  woman;  her  flesh  is  firm,  her  ample  curves  are  not 
swollen,  she  does  not  tremble  like  jelly.  And  those 
great  brown  eyes  of  flame!  When  one  has  seen  the 
portrait  of  the  lover,  in  the  frescoes  of  Siena  and  the 
Vatican,  one  smiles  in  imagining  that  fine  head  resting 
upon  the  ample  shoulder  of  this  mistress.  It  is  not 
true  that  Raphael  died  of  love,  but  we  can  understand 
how  the  legend  grew.  The  Trasteverians,  men  and 
women,  have  been  and  still  are,  a  hearty  race,  retaining 
the  fists  and  the  biceps  of  their  ancestors  who  used 
to  jump  at  the  bridles  of  the  horses  that  trampled 
over  their  young  and  their  grain.  In  these  streets 
of  the  outskirts  the  Trasteverians,  men  and  women, 
young  and  old,  squat  and  loll  about  their  poor  and 
dirty  houses,  on  the  sills  of  their  shops  heaped  up  with 
old  stuff,  the  eye  on  the  watch,  the  hand  quick,  and 
the  word  piercing.  Beautiful  girls  are  not  to  be  seen 
under  their  rags  and  squalor.  The  princes  Riarii, 
Chigi,  Corsini,  who  lamented  their  lot  among  these 
miseries,  knew  better  than  we  do  how  to  distinguish 
the  beauty  under  the  brush  heap.  They  made  her 
comb  her  hair,  no  doubt,  before  she  entered  their 
palaces.  The  Trasteverian  is  hostile  to  any  one  who 
lacks  a  palace,  leisure,  or  abundant  taste.  His  near- 
ness to  monuments  has  cultivated  him. 

Santa  Maria  in  Trastevere  and  Santa  Cecilia  are 
the  two  principal  churches  where  the  Trasteverians 


THE  FORNARINA  231 


go  to  pray  to  God  to  raise  up  a  new  Raphael  to  do 
them  justice.  The  first  is  one  of  the  oldest  in  Rome, 
quite  as  old  as  her  sisters  outside  the  walls,  and  more 
restored.  She  has  kept  her  columns  of  the  second 
structure,  of  the  twelfth  century,  which  add  to  their 
antique  beauty  the  strange  effect  of  inequality,  dis- 
concerting at  first  sight,  then  interesting,  as  one  takes 
pleasure  in  noting  the  different  heights  of  the  arches 
and  the  capitals.  Charm  makes  up  for  order,  and 
the  light  which  plays  upon  these  red,  but  pleasing, 
columns,  is  delicate  and  soft  as  velvet.  The  light  is 
wisely  distributed  so  as  to  fall  upon  the  mosaics  of  the 
apse  and  upon  the  ancient  green  and  porphyry  pave- 
ment where  I  am  so  happy  to  find  once  again  the  art 
of  the  Cosmati.  Here  even  more  antique  fragments 
have  been  used  than  in  San  Lorenzo.  They  must 
have  cut  up  entire  columns  to  obtain  all  these  disks 
and  diamonds.  What  pretty  play  of  reflected  colours 
where  the  sun's  rays  send  golds  and  blues  out  of  the 
mosaics,  which  reflect  again  until  the  whole  church  is 
filled  with  rainbows!  One  feels  that  he  has  had  a 
bath  of  light  which  has  carried  its  joy  to  his  innermost 
being. 

Saint  Cecilia,  the  eloquent  and  melodious  martyr, 
had  the  good  fortune  to  inspire  two  masterpieces: 
that  of  Raphael  and  that  of  Maderno.  Why  did  the 
too  zealous  enthusiasm  of  the  eighteenth  century  set 
its  heart  upon  entirely  rebuilding  her  temple  in  the 
pillared  style?  Cecilia,  too,  was  a  Trasteverian,  and 
consequently,  a  strong  soul,  if  it  is  really  she  whom 
Raphael  and  Maderno  have  given  us.  Maderno's 


232  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

is  more  so  than  Raphael's,  however,  with  a  delicacy 
and  childlike  charm  that  belies  her  race.  Raphael's 
Saint  Cecilia,  which  I  saw  at  Bologna  is,  in  spite  of 
the  outrageous  repainting  to  which  it  was  subjected 
in  Paris  during  its  short  sojourn  with  Napoleon,  still 
a  round,  fat  creature,  who,  without  any  other  indis- 
putable testimony,  proves  to  us  that  Raphael  in  paint- 
ing her,  had  his  mistress  before  his  eyes.  The  Cecilia 
of  Stefano  Maderno,  which  lies  under  the  altar  of  her 
church,  is  a  fine,  frail,  supple  girl.  It  is  said  that 
Maderno  sculptured  the  statue  after  the  mummy  of 
the  saint,  found  in  the  Catacombs,  and  the  marble 
has  taken  on  something  of  the  brittle  look  of  the 
mummy.  Cecilia  lies  at  her  length  on  her  side,  the 
knees  bent  somewhat,  the  body  draped  to  the  feet 
which  are  crossed,  and  below  the  drapery  the  arms 
extended  in  front  of  her  and  the  hands  partly  open, 
the  bosom  of  a  young  girl  is  indicated,  and  the  head 
which  is  turned,  is  wrapped  in  a  veil  whose  ends  come 
forward,  showing  two  tresses  of  hair.  It  has  but  one 
fault,  a  capital  one  in  which  we  see  all  the  weakness 
and  offensive  taste  of  Bernini's  school.  Cecilia  was 
beheaded.  Maderno  was  not  so  stupid  as  to  forget 
that.  He  cut  the  head  off  the  statue,  then  put  it 
back  on  the  shoulders — on  the  neck,  I  should  say, 
and,  on  that  account,  the  neck  has  an  exaggerated 
length  which  accentuates  further  the  delicacy  of  the 
entire  body.  This  blemish  aside,  we  find  in  this  work 
such  grace — like  that  in  Bernini's  first  works — such 
charming  reality,  such  abandon  that  it  fills  us  with  a 
sweet  emotion.  To  be  sure,  it  is  not  the  strong  woman 


THE  FORNARINA  233 


who  converted  her  husband  and  her  judges;  it  is  not 
the  inspired,  singing  Cecilia;  it  is  not  the  indomitable 
and  proud  Trasteverian.  It  is  a  poor  child,  resigned 
victim.  Which  of  the  two  is  false?  This  one  attracts 
us  by  her  youth  and  tenderness,  although  we  remem- 
ber that  Saint  Cecilia  was  a  woman  grown,  of  strong 
and  sublime  virtues.  Our  hearts  are  touched  with 
surprise  before  this  Cecilia;  we  seem  to  be  giving  out 
pity  to  some  other  one.  But  she  is  very  beautiful, 
restrained,  delicate,  a  work  of  art  of  a  school  which 
elsewhere  shows  itself  false,  heavy,  and  grandiloquent. 
I  have  found  the  beautiful  girls  who  belong  to  the 
train  of  the  Fornarina,  I  found  them  at  the  Villa 
Farnesina.  Before  that  I  paid  a  visit  to  the  Corsini 
Gallery,  full  of  interesting  canvases  that  one  must 
have  seen,  certain  of  which  will  be  remembered  on 
the  day  that  I  shall  soon  devote  to  modern  Rome. 
Then  I  went  to  the  pagan  Raphael,  historian  of  the 
gods  at  the  same  time  that  he  was  historian  of  God. 
Agostino  Chigi's  villa  no  longer  has  the  amplitude 
it  once  had.  Gardens  and  terraces  have  been  cut 
into  by  the  quay  of  the  Tiber,  but  the  casino  is  essen- 
tially untouched,  although  the  loggia,  like  those  of 
the  Vatican,  has  been  enclosed  to  preserve  the  frescoes. 
A  great  rectangular  building,  attributed  alternately 
• — and  even  simultaneously,  as  does  Burckhardt  to 
the  length  of  four  hundred  pages, — to  Peruzzi  and  to 
Raphael,  the  Farnesina  is  of  Bramante's,  and  not  of 
Bernini's  art.  The  lofty  taste  of  the  Renaissance,  se- 
rious and  full  of  grace,  dominates  it  throughout.  Com- 
paratively small,  as  it  is,  and  with  all  the  reserve  that 


234  A-  MONTH  IN  ROME 

is  fitting  to  its  modesty,  it  is  as  pure  and  noble  as  the 
Farnese  Palace  to  which  it  was  linked  by  so  many  ties 
that,  in  the  end,  it  came  to  belong  to  that  greater 
mansion.  It  has  the  same  fine  air  of  quiet  power. 
Its  upper  frieze,  under  the  cornice,  is  charming,  per- 
fect, although  one  can  no  longer  see  it  at  the  distance 
it  requires,  nor  through  the  bushes,  and  to  appreciate 
its  lightness  and  perfect  proportions,  we  must  call 
upon  our  imaginations  to  restore  it  to  its  old  setting. 
It  has  elegance,  sobriety,  and  all  the  discretion  becom- 
ing a  little  house  belonging  to  a  great  palace. 

The  supple  genius  of  Raphael  is  revealed  here  in  a 
brilliant  manner,  beyond  all  the  surprises  we  expect 
of  him.  Filled  as  his  brain  was  with  the  serious  com- 
positions he  was  painting  at  the  Vatican,  he  was  equal 
to  the  tenderness  demanded  in  a  pleasure  house, 
even  to  the  bedchambers  where  he  was  a  bit  mischiev- 
ous as  well  as  pleasant  and  voluptuous.  He  left  the 
Vatican  for  the  Farnesina,  left  Heliodorus  and  Bolsena 
for  Galatea  and  Psyche  whom,  in  turn,  he  left  as  easily, 
to  go  back  to  the  others.  He  is  all  that  we  can  desire, 
just  as  we  can  desire  him.  It  was  Raphael's  masterly 
ease  that  used  to  irritate  the  painstaking  Sebastian  del 
Piombo.  We,  standing  before  him  today,  enchanted, 
filled  with  wonder,  can  understand  that.  Leaving 
the  unforgettable  figure  of  Julius  II.  present  at  the 
miracle  of  Bolsena  to  paint  Jupiter,  that  good  big 
papa  embracing  the  naughty  son,  Love ;  for  that  alone 
we  must  admire  this  illustration  of  Apuleius.  Raphael 
did  not  paint  it,  but  the  design  is  entirely  his.  Giu- 
lio  Romano,  Francesco  Penni,  and  Giovanni  d'Udine 


THE  FORNARINA  235 


were  his  workmen,  but  the  best  of  the  work  was 
Raphael's.  The  artist  capable  of  conceiving  these 
forms,  so  free,  so  new,  so  daring,  so  full  of  grace,  with 
such  a  fertile  imagination  certainly  would  have  real- 
ized them  with  greater  skill  than  his  pupils.  He 
would  not  have  so  insisted  upon  these  garlands  of 
foliage  and  fruit,  and  Psyche  holding  the  urn  of  the 
infernal  regions  he  would  have  carried  higher,  making 
her  pendant  of  the  angels  of  Heliodorus.  She  would 
have  remained  a  Trasteverian,  but  a  Trasteverian 
with  Umbrian  blood  in  her  veins.  However,  that 
which  is  his,  so  altogether  his,  is  the  idea;  the  action, 
the  conflict.  And  that  is  admirable  without  reserve 
attaining  the  heights  of  truth.  In  these  frescoes 
Raphael  is  of  the  pure  Greeks  with  the  addition  of  that 
which  the  Renaissance  has  given  to  the  world  of  orig- 
inality in  its  interpretation  of  the  antique.  There 
is  the  bold  action  of  the  Greeks  and  their  eloquent 
frankness  of  the  nude,  while  from  the  Renaissance 
he  has  these  forms  which  seem  to  be  still  closer  to  the 
surprise  of  life.  But  if  the  forms  of  the  antique  seem  to 
us  to  be  merely  ideal  forms,  may  we  not  find  the  differ- 
ence less  in  the  artist  than  in  man  who  has  changed, 
especially  under  other  skies  ?  However  that  may  be, 
the  nudes  of  Raphael  come  the  nearer  to  touching 
our  senses.  We  can  almost  see  the  banquet  of  the 
gods  in  a  Directoire  salon,  a  little  more  undressed. 
To  say  that  is  to  belittle  him,  no  doubt.  Anyway  he 
is  very  near  to  us.  Here  Raphael  proves  once  again 
the  marvellous  and  miraculous  fertility  of  his  genius. 
The  man  could  do  anything;  he  shows  it  especially  in 


236  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

the  fresco  of  Galatea  which  is  one  of  the  richest  pieces 
of  art,  expressing  noble  playfulness  and  the  most 
caressing  voluptuousness,  always  chaste  and  always 
in  supreme  taste.  It  is  told  that  Michelangelo  came 
to  see  this  fresco  one  day  in  the  absence  of  Raphael. 
He  looked  at  it  a  long  time,  then,  seizing  the  brushes, 
he  painted  the  head  of  a  triton  large  and  black,  and 
went  away.  When  Raphael  returned  and  saw  the 
great  triton's  head,  he  said:  "Michelangelo  has  been 
here.  He  is  right;  my  heads  are  too  small."  And 
too  white,  perhaps?  We  find  them  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other,  for  he  altered  them  according  to  the 
tactful  lesson  of  the  great  master.  That,  like  every- 
thing else,  he  assimilated  instantly,  his  fortunate 
genius  accepting  everything  that  could  nourish  it. 
Look  at  the  frescoes  above  and  beside  his,  the  Meta- 
morphoses and  the  Polyphemus  of  Sebastiano.  In 
strength,  colour,  grandeur  even,  they  carry  the  mark 
of  a  master;  but  the  effort,  the  pain  they  cost  the  man 
who  painted  them  is  visible  and  they  pale  under  the 
contrast.  The  Christian  painter  of  the  Vatican,  the 
psychologist  of  portraiture,  the  artisan  of  Virgins 
wished,  one  day,  to  be  pagan,  and  he  was  pagan  with 
the  same  perfection  that  he  put  into  everything, 
enjoying  it  with  all  his  might.  It  has  been  said  that 
Raphael  was  unique;  surely  he  is  that  here. 

Such  a  facility  in  passing  from  one  subject  to  an- 
other cannot  be  had  without  price.  The  price  that 
Raphael  paid  was  a  certain  coldness,  except  in  por- 
traits in  which  his  interest  was  aroused  by  the  sitters. 
His  nudes  are  faultless,  although  one  could  wish  them 


> 

<B 

•s 

a 

1 

O 
a> 
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Anderson 


Anderson 


Mercury  and  Psyche,  by  Raphael  Jupiter  and  Cupid,  by  Raphael, 

Farnese  Palace 


Statue  of  the  Saint,  Church  of  Saint  Cecilia 


Anderson 


THE  FORNARINA  237 


warmer.  I  feel  that  strongly  as  I  stand  before  Sodoma. 
No  artist,  I  believe,  is  more  seductive  than  Sodoma. 
Others  we  may  admire  with  more  reason  and  more 
reasons.  No  other  appeals  to  us  with  such  power 
of  attraction.  Memories  of  him  are  tenacious  and 
troubling.  Of  all  the  painters  I  have  seen  in  the 
course  of  my  travels,  he  has  made,  I  will  not  say  the 
highest  impression,  but  the  most  lifelike.  Here,  at 
the  Parnesina,  he  overcomes  me.  The  Marriage  of 
Alexander  and  Roxana  surpasses  everything  else  that 
I  have  known  of  Sodoma.  For  one  of  the  rare  times, 
perhaps  the  only  one  in  his  life,  Sodoma  could  here 
abandon  himself  to  his  pagan  instincts.  Of  course 
the  man  could  not  help  showing  in  his  religious  work 
that  he  was  a  lover  of  the  human  form.  Often,  as  in 
the  fresco  of  Saint  Catherine  at  Siena,  and  in  certain 
panels  of  the  life  of  Saint  Benedict  at  Monte  Oliveto, 
unable  to  hold  himself  in,  he  oversteps  the  limitations 
of  propriety  laid  down  for  him.  In  the  flesh  of  the 
women  in  the  Catherine  there  is  a  fulness  and  palpita- 
tion nothing  less  than  edifying.  Some  of  the  pages 
at  Monte  Oliveto  are  worthy  of  Hadrian's  court.1 
Yet  all  his  work  there  shows  the  restraint  he  was 
under.  Here  absolute  liberty  was  given  to  the  pupil 
of  Leonardo  who  knew  how  to  appreciate  Raphael. 
He  was  unbridled.  Do  not  think  that  he  relaxed 
under  his  freedom.  Never  has  more  sovereign  nobil- 
ity appeared  in  his  work.  In  this  subject,  which 
happens  to  be  pagan,  he  sees  but  the  opportunity  to 
express  himself  without  preoccupation  foreign  to  the 
1  Little  Cities  of  Italy,  vol.  i.,  chap.  iii. 


238  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

work  itself,  and  so  he  realized  a  masterpiece.  Some 
people  find  this  fresco  overcharged  and  compare  it 
with  the  work  of  Raphael  who  knew  how  to  fill  his 
surfaces  without  encumbering  them.  I  do  not  feel 
this  with  Alexander  and  Roxana.  Everything  is  in 
it,  yes:  Roxana,  Alexander,  Hephsestion,  Hymen,  the 
slaves,  the  Cupids,  the  bed,  the  colonnades,  and  the 
landscape,  yet  I  do  not  see  too  much.  Some  people 
say,  too,  that  an  historical  painting  demands  more 
restraint.  This  is  rather  mythological  than  historical, 
and  so  Sodoma  has  treated  it.  But  of  what  conse- 
quence is  such  controversy  over  this  general  harmony, 
this  abundance  without  excess,  this  truth  without  dis- 
cord, and  all  these  exact  and  ingenious  details  ?  What 
matters  it  beside  the  splendour  of  the  piece?  That 
is  incomparable.  Hephaestion  nude,  smiling  with 
happy  satisfaction  at  the  charms  of  Roxana;  she  lifts 
her  draperies  modestly,  and  the  superb  Hephasstion, 
full  of  pride,  proclaims  that  he  has  nothing  to  fear 
from  this  caprice;  but  Roxana,  in  her  timid  modesty, 
is  so  generously  beautiful  that  we  feel  less  reassured 
than  he  appears  to  be.  There  is  between  these  two 
bodies,  the  one  strong  and  fine  of  line,  all  disclosed 
to  our  eyes  in  its  magnificence,  the  other  round,  soft, 
velvety,  lightly  covered  by  the  veil  that  hides  the 
bosom,  a  duel,  the  victory  of  which  Alexander,  Hyper- 
ion's buckles  scattered  upon  his  long  tunic,  already 
gives  to  Roxana  in  offering  to  her  his  crown.  Sodoma 
has  written  here  the  whole  poem  of  the  flesh,  the  flesh 
that  he  loved  so  well  and  of  which  he  is  one  of  the 
two  or  three  great  poets. 


THE  FORNARINA  239 


Sebastiano  del  Piombo  is  more  master  of  himself 
when  he  is  not  near  Raphael.  In  going  up  the  Jani- 
culum,  I  stopped  at  San  Pietro  in  Montorio  whose 
pride  is  Sebastiano 's  Scourging  of  Christ.  The  ad- 
mirer of  Michelangelo  here  stands  out  free,  but  always 
pushing  his  effects  to  the  utmost  limits.  Beyond 
bounds  he  does  not  go,  however,  no  more  than  did  his 
master,  all  of  whose  extremes  are  logical,  nay,  seem 
necessary.  This  scourging  is  severe;  it  hurts.  I 
passed  into  the  little  court  where  Bramante's  de- 
licious round  temple,  which  seems  to  have  a  "play" 
cupola,  held  me  an  instant.  Leaving  the  church,  I 
admired  the  famous  Acqua  Paola,  one  of  the  most 
legitimate  excesses  of  Maderno  and  Fontana.  Then, 
by  the  Gate  of  San  Pancrazio,  I  went  to  finish  my 
day  under  the  umbrellas  of  the  Villa  Pamfili,  to 
visit  the  country  house  after  the  pleasure  house. 

The  entrance  is  from  a  sacred  way.  A  triumphal 
arch,  sustained  by  neither  walls  nor  gates,  commands 
the  avenue  which  branches  at  once  in  several  direc- 
tions, descending  into  the  valley  that  nature  has 
made  in  the  summit  of  the  Janiculum.  Rome  lies 
to  the  right  and  along  an  elevated  alley  runs  the 
aqueduct  of  the  Acqua  Paola.  Above  everything 
shines  the  dome  of  Saint  Peter's  and  points  the  little 
summit  of  Monte  Mario.  Farther  away  are  the 
Soracte  and  the  mountains  of  Tivoli.  It  is  a  pano- 
rama of  wide  beauty,  of  calm  and  of  light,  that  Roman 
light  from  which  all  impurity  is  swept  away  by  the 
alternating  breezes  of  mountain  and  sea.  It  is  ex- 
quisitely fresh  under  the  oaks  in  view  of  these  fields 


240  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

and  rocks  flooded  with  sunlight.     Paths  leading  into 
hidden  distances  invite  you  to  stroll  or  to  linger  in 
sweet  idleness  and  let  the  world  slip.     Seated  on  a 
stone  bank,  I  look  at  the  Campagna  and  at  the  woods, 
my  eyes  resting  now  upon  the  one,  now  on  the  other, 
trying  to  choose  between  their  sovereign  charms  of 
contrasting  beauties,  and,  in  the  end  yielding  to  both 
of  them.     The  park,  however,  attracts  me  much  more 
than  that  of  the  Villa  Borghese,  which  has  a  sugges- 
tion of  indifference,   of  being  public.     At  the  Villa 
Pamfili  the    groves   have   something   intimate,  per- 
sonal,  I  should  say,  about  them.     With  the  gates 
shut  you  would  feel  at  home.     In  the  Borghese  park, 
you  would  feel  that  you  were  a  thief.     Much  more 
vast  though  it  is,  the  Pamfili  never  bewilders  me  an 
instant.     The  long,  broad  field  covered  with  anemone 
spreads  out  a  carpet  of  such  variety  and  brilliancy 
as  the  East  has  never  conceived  of.     The  meadow, 
shut  in 'between  two  walls  of  oaks  and  bordered  at  the 
end  by  umbrella  pines,  invites  one  to  picnic,  to  the 
siesta,  and,  in  the  end,  one  would  be  weaving  wreaths. 
Even  in  this  pine  wood,  exceptional  as  it  is  in  size, 
strength,  and  majesty,  I  see  the  careful  hand  which 
controls  the  order  and  cleanliness  noticeable  every- 
where.    Nature  blooms  in  her  beautiful  liberty;  man 
but  prunes  the  parasites  and  restrains  excess.     The 
umbrella  pine  is  characteristic  of  picturesque  Rome. 
We  often  come  upon  one,  at  a  street  corner,  holding  a 
palace  in  its  shadow.     The  effect  is  striking.     But 
what  real  grandeur  a  tree  must  have  not  to  require 
solitude?    A  beautiful  tree  standing  by  itself  in  the 


THE  FORNARINA  241 


middle  of  a  field,  before  a  house,  cannot  fail  to  be 
magnificent  and  whereas  drowned  in  a  forest,  it  is 
belittled.  Not  so  the  umbrellas  of  the  Villa  Pamfili; 
they  lose  nothing  by  being  together.  Each  one  does 
its  share  in  the  magnificence,  and  the  whole  is  dazzling. 
They  defy  every  storm  and  every  beam  of  light. 
Always  dark  under  a  brilliant  sun,  unmoved  by  all 
the  winds  of  heaven,  the  giants  spread  out  their  wide 
skirts  to  the  skies,  leaving  their  trunks  sleek  and  nude, 
a  vast  quadrille  of  ballet  dancers  fixed  by  enchantment 
as  they  are  pirouetting  on  their  toes. 

Further  on  lies  the  Laghetto,  fed  by  a  fountain  in 
rock-work,  and  running  away  in  a  brook  of  cascades 
as  far  as  the  swans.  I  cross  the  stones,  climb  through 
the  woods,  and,  suddenly  the  gardens  of  the  casino 
lie  at  my  feet.  Bramante's  design  for  the  garden  of 
the  Belvedere,  of  three  terraces  connected  by  archi- 
traves, was  followed  by  Algardi  who  planned  this 
villa  for  the  nephew  of  Innocent  X.  The  lowest 
terrace  is  an  English  garden,  somewhat  disturbing, 
perhaps,  to  the  general  harmony,  but  not  to  eyes  like 
ours,  which  love  this  arrangement.  It  is  made  up  of 
mysterious  groves  and  winding  paths  with  a  purely 
Roman  arrangement  of  running  water  in  profusion- 
basin,  jet,  and  what  is  called  the  theatre,  that  is  a 
rounded  portico  of  marbles  and  rock-work  enclosed 
by  a  border  of  plants  and  grass.  Above  this  portico 
is  the  second  garden,  flat,  without  trees,  all  in  flower 
designs,  the  true  Italian  garden  this  time,  rectangular, 
and  whose  only  summits  are  those  of  the  rose-bushes 
and  the  oleanders  standing  in  their  terra-cotta  pots, 
id 


242  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Seen  from  above,  these  multi-coloured  arabesques 
remind  me  of  the  mosaics  of  the  Cosmati,  and  I  admire 
the  instinct  which  inspired  the  artists  in  marble 
and  the  gardener  to  make  the  same  decoration.  In 
France  we  know  nothing  but  the  English  park  or  the 
French  garden  with  its  straight  stripes  and  bushes  cut 
like  pedestals  and  surmounted  by  vases  or  statues. 
There  is  another  thing  to  know:  that  is  the  Italian 
garden  whose  stripes  are  short  and  curving,  which 
has  some  suggestion  of  architecture  throughout.  It 
is,  in  fact,  a  garden  built  with  the  house,  harmonizing 
with  it,  repeating  its  motif  and  its  lines  laid  flat  upon 
the  surface  of  the  ground,  and  surrounding  them  with 
decorated  walls,  embellishing  them  with  statues,  with 
porticoes,  with  stone  seats,  grottoes,  and  niches.  The 
garden  expresses  the  tastes  of  the  master;  it  has  no 
life  apart  from  his,  no  existence  separate  from  the 
dwelling  it  accompanies  and  supplements.  Soon,  at 
the  Villa  Albani,  I  shall  give  more  study  and  greater 
detail  to  the  Italian  garden.  The  Pamfili  garden 
obeys  the  Italian  law  of  gardens.  It  shows  a  char-  • 
acter  of  its  own  in  the  galleries  of  oaks  and  umbrella 
pines  that  cast  their  cool  shade  upon  this  vast  hollow 
where  all  the  pollens  of  Italy  have  gathered  themselves 
together  and  germinated.  Now,  in  the  last  days  of 
May,  it  is  invaded  by  roses :  low  growing  roses,  climb- 
ing roses,  running  roses,  and  their  perfume  comes 
up  to  the  little  wall  where  I  am  leaning.  In  the 
centre,  upon  the  great  border  of  the  rectangle,  the 
steps  branch  out  and  lead  to  the  third  terrace  where  \ 
the  house  stands.  Light,  pleasant,  even  joyful,  the 


THE  FORNARINA  243 


casino  opens  its  green  windows  wide,  spreads  out  its 
white  walls,  in  graceful  lines,  rounds  its  niches  where 
statues  smile  lifts  its  points  on  the  great  upper  gallery, 
and  in  all  its  colours,  all  its  forms,  all  its  decorations 
seems  to  look  at  its  reflection  with  satisfaction  in  the 
garden  below.  It  is  no  longer  a  garden  that  I  look 
down  upon,  but  a  great  basin  reflecting  the  entire 
villa.  Make  the  garden  for  the  house  or  adapt  the 
style  of  the  house  to  the  park;  that  is  the  law  of  the 
Italian  gardener.  I  am  reminded  of  Frascati,  and 
of  Tivoli,  too,  somewhat.  At  Frascati  I  saw  an  ex- 
cess of  gardeners'  buildings  until  they  seemed  child's 
play  or  the  booths  and  cottages  of  a  State  Fair.  At 
Tivoli  I  saw  a  considerable  palace  command  a  little 
garden  which  corresponded, in  nothing  with  its  villa 
and  was  encumbered  without  discernment  in  the  hope 
of  making  it  seem  larger.  Here  everything  hangs 
together,  united  and  balanced.  The  Pamfili  gardens 
are  the  drawing-rooms  of  a  pavilion  whose  intimate 
rooms,  in  the  same  style  with  them,  are  in  the  midst 
of  the  forest. 

The  Villa  Pamfili  was  the  fitting  country  house  of 
the  princes  of  the  Farnese  and  the  Farnesina.  The 
three  range  together  in  perfect  gradation.  For  the 
city,  the  severe  and  noble  palace,  inspiring  respect 
and  opening  its  doors  for  sumptuous  entertainments. 
The  Farnesina  was  the  Trianon  of  the  noble  masters 
who  went  there  to  leave  behind  awhile  the  pomp  of 
their  state,  but  still  maintain  a  certain  gravity,  im- 
posed by  the  eyes  of  Rome  always  upon  them.  It 
was  only  when  shut  in  with  Psyche  that  they  could 


244  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

really  unbend  there.  But  the  Villa  Pamfili  so  well 
hidden  that  it  might  stand  wide  open,  all  flowering 
as  it  was,  that  was  the  place  for  love.  Here  art  sprang 
from  nature  herself  who  lends  to  it  all  her  charms. 
No  need  of  Raphael  nor  of  the  Carracci;  the  flowers 
and  the  umbrellas  were  sufficient  for  the  interlacing 
fingers  or  the  outstretched  arm.  After  the  intrigues 
and  the  entertainments  of  the  urban  palace,  after 
having  tasted  of  Galatea's  lips  at  the  Farnesina,  when 
one  craved  repose  or  freedom,  here  was  the  Pamfili. 


Nineteenth  Day 

MODERN  ROME 

TKe  Janicvilum 

BURNING  sun  shining  on  the  city, 
though  relieved  by  the  freshness  of 
the  nights,  warns  the  ardent  pedes- 
trian that  for  the  sake  of  lucidity 

alone  he  may  as  well  give  himself  up 

to  the  vetturino,  the  ever-hailing-you  cabby,  and 
bless  him  for  saving  time  and  averting  disaster  even 
while  cursing  him  for  his  importunities  and  dishonesty. 

245 


246  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Moreover,  a  quiet  day  is  necessary  once  in  a  while. 
It  is  not  time  lost;  one  takes  up  the  chase  better  the 
next  day.  So,  surrendering  to  the  Roman  tyrant  this 
morning,  I  visited  the  four  or  five  places  indispens- 
able as  data  to  the  questions  I  wish  to  answer  today; 
and,  this  afternoon,  I  had  myself  hurled  to  the  heights 
of  the  Janiculum.  There,  with  Rome  at  my  feet,  I 
rested,  looking  at  the  struggle  between  the  storm 
coming  down  from  the  Sabines  and  the  breeze  rising 
from  the  sea.  I  put  to  myself  the  problem  whose 
solution  I  have  been  seeking  since  the  day  of  my  ar- 
rival in  Rome.  Has  this  Rome  that  I  see  the  feeling 
she  ought  to  have  towards  that  other  Rome  whose 
cemeteries  I  so  greatly  prefer  that  I  neglect  her  for 
them?  Does  she  do  wisely  and  well  for  her  dead 
mother,  that  which  she  cannot  refuse  to  do  without 
sacrilege?  Does  she  remember  to  what  she  owes 
her  supremacy  in  Italy,  occupied  as  she  has  been 
and  as  she  is  in  responding  to  the  new  necessities 
born  of  the  present  century,  to  the  civilization  and 
the  political  upset  of  which  she  has  been  the  prize; 
is  she  all  absorbed  in  becoming  what  she  used  to 
be  and  what  she  never  was  before :  the  capital  of  a 
great  kingdom,  and  this  time,  a  great  capital  of 
the  twentieth  century,  ranking  with  Paris,  London, 
Berlin,  and  Vienna?  Does  she  hold  in  something 
like  a  stable  equilibrium  the  two  contradictions 
whose  terms  I  formulated  the  first  day  when  I 
called  her  a  living  museum?  For  her  new  glory, 
what  has  she  sacrificed  of  her  past  glory,  and  what 
does  she  preserve  of  her  past  in  working  legitimately 


MODERN  ROME  247 


for  the  present?     How  does  she  keep   the  two  in 
neighbourly  relation  ? 

It  has  not  been,  is  not,  an  easy  task!  In  the  eight- 
eenth century  the  President  de  Drosses  wrote:  "Im- 
agine what  a  people  must  be,  of  whom  one-third  is 
priests,  one-third  never  works,  and  one-third  does 
nothing  at  all,  where  there  is  neither  agriculture,  nor 
commerce  in  the  midst  of  a  fertile  country  and  upon  a 
navigable  river,  whose  prince  is  always  an  old  man, 
sure  to  reign  but  a  short  time,  often  incapable  of 
doing  anything  by  himself,  and  surrounded  by  rela- 
tives who  have  no  other  idea  than  to  make  the  most 
of  their  opportunity  while  it  lasts,  and  where,  at  every 
change  of  incumbent,  fresh  thieves  arrive  who  take 
the  place  of  those  who  have  no  further  need  of  proof 
where  impunity  is  assured  to  anyone  who  wishes  to 
trouble  society  if  only  he  is  recognized  by  some  one 
of  great  name  or  near  to  some  protection,  where  all 
the  money  necessary  for  the  needs  of  life  is  drawn 
from  foreign  countries.  .  .  ."  This,  also,  is  what 
Sismondi  says :  "  In  Rome  everyone  wears  the  cassock, 
a  livery,  or  goes  in  rags."  Chateaubriand,  with  his 
sumptuous  discretion,  spoke  of  "the  dead  who  pass 
from  coffin  to  coffin.  ..."  Stendhal  had  a  similar 
impression.  Girardin  said:  "It  smells  of  death." 
Nor  is  this  testimony  contradicted  by  the  pictures  in 
the  Vatican  Library,  the  Corsini  Museum,  in  engrav- 
ings, and  in  all  the  scattered  works  of  which  Rome  is 
the  subject.  Might  Rome  have  acquired  independ- 
ence with  her  prosperity?  Read  the  last  chapter, 
entitled  "Society,"  in  Taine's  Journey  in  Italy.  You 


248  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

will  see  that  nothing  had  then  changed  since  the  time 
of  the  good  de  Brosses.  The  page  of  1863  is  the  same 
as  that  of  1740.  It  was  also  the  Rome  found  by  the 
monarchy  when  it  passed  the  Porta  Pia  on  the  2Oth 
of  September,  1870,  the  true,  nameless  Rome  which 
was  to  become  a  great  modern  capital.  Today,  as 
we  go  out  of  our  hotel — where  we  have  but  to  press 
a  button  to  flood  our  apartment  with  light,  to  press 
a  tap  for  a  warm  bath,  or  lean  on  a  communicator 
to  talk  with  friends  in  Paris, — it  is  easy  for  us  to  put 
on  a  superior  air,  regretting  beautiful  old  Rome. 
What  a  pity  those  unhealthy  old  houses  have  been 
pulled  down,  that  that  drain  has  been  pierced,  that 
this  piece  of  land  had  been  put  upon  the  market,  and 
those  trolleys !  We  do  not  reflect  that  the  sanitation, 
the  comforts  and  conveniences  that  have  become  so 
indispensable  to  our  life  would  be  impossible  without 
these  "sacrifices  of  the  picturesque."  In  1870  Rome 
had  240,000  inhabitants.  Today  it  has  between 
50,000  and  100,000  more  than  double  that  number. 
Where  should  we  lodge  if  the  city  were  not  developed? 
In  the  first  place,  Rome  must  grow  large  enough  to 
shelter  her  own  citizens,  and,  besides  them,  she  has  a 
great  floating  population. 

The  traveller  thinks  only  of  the  old  palaces,  but 
the  palaces  could  not  house  the  new  people;  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  pull  down  the  least  important  of  them 
and  build  dwellings  and  all  the  other  buildings  that 
the  necessities  of  a  capital  require.  Nor  could  the 
incoherent  mass  of  so  many  infected  streets  lend  itself 
to  the  free,  well-lighted,  rapid  movement  of  modern 


MODERN  ROME  249 


life.  In  tearing  down  entire  quarters,  old  Rome  has 
been  murdered,  but  rendered  habitable.  Travellers 
would  have  liked  to  preserve  Rome  as  Venice  has 
been  preserved.  What  a  fate  for  a  capital;  no  busi- 
ness but  that  of  catering  to  the  strangers  who  visit 
it  and  a  mortality  of  thirty  per  thousand  among  its 
inhabitants ! 

In  order  to  lodge  the  newcomers,  two  new  quarters 
have  been  built,  the  first  in  the  ancient  Prati,  the 
meadows  that  used  to  be  so  admired  near  the  Vatican. 
Early  in  her  new  development  as  it  is,  already  Rome 
is  beginning  to  complain  of  want  of  air.  Perhaps, 
then,  she  should  be  able  to  keep  the  gardens  that 
have  been  given  to  her  and  transfer  her  building 
efforts  to  the  sides  of  the  Caelius  and  the  Aventine. 
No  doubt,  the  merited  reputation  for  unhealthiness 
borne  by  these  hills  has  made  building  enterprise  hesi- 
tate before  the  expense  necessary  to  fit  them  for  the 
exigencies  of  the  twentieth  century.  Anyway,  as  yet 
the  building  in  the  Prati  has  suppressed  nothing  of  in- 
terest to  the  traveller  for  art's  sake.  The  second  new 
quarter  has  been  built  upon  the  Esquiline,  around  the 
Railway  Station  and  Santa  Maria  Maggiore.  There, 
too,  nothing  of  importance  has  been  suppressed. 
Most  of  the  land  was  unoccupied,  and  the  new  popula- 
tion called  to  the  capital  has  found  there  wide,  airy 
streets  with  healthy  houses  to  live  in,  at  the  expense 
of  the  lamented  "picturesque"  which  still  character- 
izes the  Caelius  and  the  Aventine.  Man  lives,  how- 
ever, not  on  the  picturesque,  but  on  the  hygienic, 
and  as  people  have  continued  coming  to  stay  it  has 


250  A   MONTH  IN  ROME 

been  a  pressing  matter  to  build  a  merchants'  quarter. 
Rome  could  not  grow  without  a  corresponding  growth 
in  the  prosperity  of  her  shop-keepers,  and  were  these 
enriched  negocianti  willing  to  live  in  the  suburb  of  the 
Prati  or  in  the  ruins  of  the  Velabrum?  Oh,  no,  they 
must  have  a  quarter  where,  according  to  modern 
customs,  they  could  have  their  own  mansions,  each 
standing  by  itself,  surrounded  by  its  own  garden, 
fitted  with  modern  comfort  or,  if  not  that,  luxurious 
quarters  in  an  up-to-the-latest-minute  apartment 
house.  The  Villa  Ludovisi  was  sacrificed.  It  was  a 
great  crime,  the  greater  that,  since  Rome  needs  to 
breathe,  she  might  have  spared  this  lung.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  is  certain  that  only  there,  in  the  gardens 
of  Sallust,  was  it  possible  to  find  the  conditions  required 
for  healthfulness,  nearness  to  business  centres,  and  a 
soil  free  from  substructures  of  ruins.  The  Ludovisi 
quarter  is  today  the  rich  and  elegant  part  of  Rome, 
such  a  quarter  as  Rome  had  need  of  the  moment  she 
became  a  great  city,  and  which  meets  the  requirements 
from  every  point  of  view.  Let  us  not  forget,  also, 
that  to  the  sacrifice  of  this  villa  for  building  lots  we 
owe  the  passing  of  the  Ludovisi-Buoncompagni  col- 
lections into  the  National  Museum  of  the  Thermae. 

Then  there  are  the  gardens  of  the  Farnesina  which 
have  been  paved  off  by  the  quays  of  the  Tiber.  But 
the  Tiber  was  in  the  habit  of  overflowing,  and  it  was 
too  much  to  ask  that  an  uncertain  number  of  Romans 
should  be  drowned  every  year  to  give  tourists  the 
pleasure  of  walking  in  the  groves  where  Raphael 
used  to  linger,  and  opening  the  cornice  of  the  villa  at 


MODERN  ROME  251 


a  certain  distance.     The  casino  of  that  villa  is  intact; 
that  should  be  enough  for  us.     Besides,  large  com- 
pensations attenuate  these  sacrifices.     The  State  has 
not  only  added  the  park  of  the  Villa  Borghese  to  the  little 
Pincio  which  had  become  inadequate,  and  added  the 
museum  of  that  villa  to  the  city's  priceless  collections, 
but  also  had  bought  the  Villa  Corsini  on  the  Janicu- 
lum,  providing  another  magnificent  promenade  to- 
wards which  nine  travellers  out  of  ten  turn  on  their 
arrival  in  Rome,  according  to  the  voracious  word  of 
Piranesi.     It  is  precisely  upon  that  promenade  that 
I  am  writing  these  notes,  all  Rome  lying  before  me, 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  panoramas  in  the  world. 
Do  those  who  lament  old  Rome  complain  of  this,  too? 
I  leave  it  to  engineers  and  others  more  competent 
than  myself  to  state  authoritatively  if  underground 
Rome  does  or  does  not  possess  all  the  drains  and  other 
water-pipes  necessary  to  a  great  modern  capital.    To 
me  the  machinery  seems  to  work  satisfactorily.    Water 
floods  the  streets  every  morning  to  such  a  degree  that, 
in  going  out  of  my  hotel,  I  used  to  think  it  rained  every 
night  in  Rome.     Certainly  it  is  not  without  work  on 
the  part  of  the  administration  of  the  city  that  such 
watering  is  possible.     Is  there  a  traveller  who  comes 
in  from  the  Roman  Campagna  who  does  not  appreciate 
the  care  which  enables  him  to  walk  about  without 
eating  the  dust  in  this  city  where  months  sometimes 
pass  between  a  rainfall?     I  have  been  watching  a 
storm  that  came  up  just  now  from  Tivoli.    The  sea- 
breeze  met  and  vanquished  the  vapour-laden  wind, 
pushing  it  back  upon  the  mountains  where  it  broke 


252  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

into  floods  of  rain.  Not  a  drop  of  it  will  reach  Rome, 
where  the  streets  will  be  watered  as  usual  tonight. 

The  most  delicate  problem  to  be  dealt  with  in  and 
for  the  modern  capital  was  that  of  the  daily  movement 
of  the  population  in  its  work  and  pleasure.  It  was 
necessary  to  create  great  avenues  for  large  crowds; 
to  do  so  without  sacrificing  anything  that  merited 
preservation,  that  is  to  say,  destroying  nothing  but 
hovels  or  houses  without  character  or  lacking  especial 
historical  interests.  I  make  no  effort  to  recall  such 
and  such  palaces,  where  the  tram  passes  now,  nor  to 
dwell  upon  the  scruples,  more  or  less  grave,  felt  over 
their  loss.  It  is  enough  to  know  how  to  read,  not  only 
the  old  books,  but  old  maps,  and  to  know  how  to 
look  at  what  remains. 

In  the  centre  of  the  city,  the  principal  artery  has 
been  traced  from  the  Tiber  to  the  Piazza.  Venezia 
through  the  middle  of  the  ancient  Campus  Martius, 
which  was  the  important  quarter  of  the  sordid  Rome 
of  the  popes.  To  the  right  and  the  left  of  this  street, 
the  Corso  Vittorio  Emanuele,  branches  off  a  number  of 
infected  little  streets  which  suffice  to  demonstrate 
the  necessity  and  also  the  moderation  of  the  sacrifices 
made  to  put  through  this  street.  But  let  us  see  how  it 
has  been  made.  Not  at  all  in  a  straight  line  which 
would  have  demolished  a  dozen  palaces,  churches,  or  in- 
teresting houses.  On  the  map  the  Corso  Vittorio  Eman- 
uele looks  as  if  it  had  been  drawn  by  the  trembling 
hand  of  an  old  man.  Where  it  begins  or  ends,  at  the 
bridge  of  Vittorio  Emanuele,  near  the  Tiber  stands 
the  ancient  Bank  of  the  Santo  Spirito,  the  bank  of  the 


Anderson 


View  from  the  Janiculum 


•Anderson 


Cloaca  Maxima  and  Temple  of  Vesta 


MODERN  ROME  253 


Chigi  family,  so  the  street  bears  to  the  right.  Farther 
on  stands,  intact,  the  Palazzo  Sforza-Cesarini,  the  an- 
cient palace  of  Cardinal  Borgia,  given  by  him  to  the 
Cardinal  Ascanio  Sforza,  a  gift  of  thanks  for  Ascanio's 
renunciation  of  all  dispute  against  him  for  the  tiara. 
In  front  of  the  Chiesa  Nuova  is  a  square  which  could 
not  have  been  crossed  directly  without  pulling  down, 
a  little  further  on,  the  Palazzo  Sora.  Of  course  the 
admirable  Palazzo  della  Cancelleria  survives,  even 
if  the  street  must  swerve  to  the  left  to  pass  without 
hurting  it,  as  the  next  curve  is  quickly  to  the  right  for 
the  Palazzo  Massimi  alle  Colonne,  to  the  left  again 
for  the  Vidoni,  violently  to  the  right  once  more  for 
the  Strozzi,  left  for  the  Gesu,  where  it  is  strangled 
between  that  church  and  the  Palazzo  Altieri,  to  be 
squeezed  at  last  between  the  Palazzo  Doria  and  the 
Palazzo  Venezia. 

So  much  for  the  first  part  of  this  corso,  which  unites 
the  river  and  the  centre;  the  second  part  is  called  the 
Via  Nazionale  and  unites  the  centre  of  the  city  with 
that  other  river,  the  railway.  It  has  barely  left  the 
Piazza  di  Venezia  when  it  runs  into  the  Palazzo  Col- 
onna,  inclines  to  the  right  and  comes  upon  the  solid 
end  of  the  Quirinal.  That  which  Trajan  was  able 
to  do  has  been  an  easy  task  for  modern  Rome.  To 
cut  into  the  hill  was  mere  play,  the  serious  matter 
was  to  choose  between  what  palaces  and  churches  and 
the  Forum  of  Trajan  the  cut  should  lie.  The  choice 
which  sacrificed  nothing  of  importance  but  conveni- 
ence in  traffic,  was  made  by  turning  the  street  twice 
upon  itself  at  a  right  angle  upon  the  steepest  incline 


254  &  MONTH  IN  ROME 

of  the  hill.  This  difficult  point  passed,  nothing  re- 
mained but  to  level  the  next  hill,  the  Viminal,  which 
had  no  treasures  to  be  preserved,  and  to  carry  the  street 
straight  up  to  the  Thermae  and  let  it  end  there  in  the 
great  Piazza  whose  situation  before  the  Central  Rail- 
way Station  has  not  been  made  an  excuse  for  negli- 
gence. The  Piazza  delle  Terme  is  bordered  by  houses 
none  of  which  merit  the  cry  of  abomination  which 
mounts  to  all  lips  in  the  course  of  a  walk  about  Paris. 
The  new  houses  of  Rome  may  not  be  beautiful,  but 
they  are  not  ugly.  They  are  insignificant,  the  evil 
that  does  the  least  harm. 

This  great  artery  created,  it  was  necessary  to  put 
it  in  communication  with  its  periphery.  The  Via 
del  Tritone,  one  of  the  most  commercial  streets  of  the 
city,  has  been  widened.  The  Via  Cavour  has  been 
opened  from  the  Station  to  the  Forum,  crossing  the 
ancient  Subura.  The  Via  Arenula  runs  from  the 
Corso  Vittorio  Emanuele  to  the  Ponte  Garibaldi,  and 
large  streets  connect  the  Corso  with  the  Tiber.  The 
most  important  work,  the  piercing  of  the  Quirinal, 
was  accomplished  in  characteristic  manner.  The 
necessity  to  unite  by  practical,  and  not  calamitous, 
roads  the  new  quarter  near  the  Station  with  the  Ludo- 
visi  quarters,  the  Piazza  di  Spagna.  Between  these 
quarters,  which  bite  upon  the  ancient  Campus  Mar- 
tius  and  the  Viminal,  rises  the  Quirinal,  obstacle  in- 
surmountable, but  not  impenetrable.  A  tunnel  was 
made  under  the  gardens  of  the  royal  palace,  with  a 
street  connecting  the  Via  Nazionale  with  the  Via  del 
Tritone,  a  tunnel  faced  with  white  and  accommodat- 


MODERN  ROME  255 


ing  trams,  carriages,  and  foot-passengers  all  at  the 
same  time. 

How  many  other  details  might  be  described!  I 
have  told  of  enough  to  show  what  care  Rome  bestows 
on  her  double  problem  of  the  ancient  and  the  modern 
city,  that  the  legitimate  desire  she  has  to  live  does  not 
make  her  forget  her  past.  Oh,  no  doubt,  amidst  so 
much  great  and  important  work,  mistakes  may  be 
found  to  crow  over!  But,  before  we  hasten  to  con- 
demn, it  would  be  well  to  think  over  what  new  dis- 
coveries Rome  has  made  in  all  this  recent  work  with 
pick  and  shovel.  The  sublime  Pugilist-  of  the  Thermae, 
for  instance,  was  found  during  the  digging  for  the 
foundations  of  the  National  Theatre  on  the  Via  Nazi- 
onale.  In  excavating  for  the  quay  of  the  Tiber,  in 
the  Farnesina  gardens,  workmen  came  upon  an  entire 
house  of  the  time  of  Augustus,  where  were  rotting 
the  stuccoes  we  see  also  in  the  same  National  Museum. 
Moreover,  an  entirely  new  museum,  the  Antiquarium, 
has  been  made  out  of  what  has  been  brought  to  light 
in  the  course  of  these  recent  public  works.  Rome  is 
so  full  of  hidden  ruins  that  when  a  proprietor  demol- 
ishes a  building  he  can  never  be  sure  that  it  will  not 
disclose  antiquities  of  such  importance  that  archaeo- 
logy and  history  will  rise  at  once  to  forbid  his  rebuild- 
ing. "Indemnify  me,"  he  says.  "The  State  is  not 
rich,"  he  is  answered.  "Well  then,"  he  cries  to  his 
workmen,  "fill  in.  .  .  .  '  How  few  Romans,  except 
those  who  have  been  building  very  lately,  can  say 
that  they  have  no  treasures, — perhaps  statues,  even 
temples, — under  their  cellars!  Yesterday  I  was  at 


256  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

the  house  of  Count  X.  whose  palace  stands  at  the 
foot  of  the  Capitol.  On  his  table,  I  noticed  a  marble 
statuette  of  Hercules  about  twelve  inches  high,  a  charm- 
ing thing  of  fine  lines,  with  a  warm  tint  like  that  of  old 
ivory.  The  master  of  the  house  told  me,  "I  found  it 
while  digging  in  the  cellars  of  my  house  to  repair  the 
foundations.  ..."  Every  instant,  in  your  walks 
about  the  city,  as  you  graze  a  house,  you  hit  your 
elbow  on  something  sticking  out  of  the  wall,  and  look- 
ing to  see  what  has  hurt  you,  you  find  an  Ionic  or 
a  Doric  capital  whose  columns  are  lost  under  the 
walls  or  whose  bases  are  far  beneath  the  sidewalk; 
and  often  you  see  many  in  a  row.  Rome  is  built 
upon  the  strata  of  five  or  six  centuries.  It  is  not 
easy  to  lay  wires,  pipes,  drains  among  them!  For 
my  part,  I  am  convinced  that,  with  some  exceptions  in 
details,  modern  Rome  has  done  the  maximum  of  what 
has  been  possible  under  her  conditions.  She  might 
have  avoided  pulling  down — even  to  rebuild  it  on  the 
other  corner — that  wing  of  the  Palazzetto  Venezia 
which  stuck  out  upon  the  Piazza.  It  seems  that  this 
sacrifice  was  required  by  the  monument  to  Victor 
Emmanuel.  Romans  may  answer  to  our  objections: 
"One  must  pass.  The  life  of  the  city  is  developing 
on  this  side;  we  cannot  live  in  a  pocket  any  longer." 
But  to  pull  down  a  palace  of  the  Quattrocento  so  as 
to  give  full  view  to  the  end  of  a  new  monument  is 
too  much.  Why  not  make  the  monument  a  little  less 
big? 

There  are  mistakes,  but  it  is  not  necessary  to  see 
only  them.     We  may  think  of  what  is  yet  to  be  done. 


MODERN  ROME  257 


The  task  for  the  realization  of  which  Rome  is  now 
dedicated  shows  better  than  anything  that  can  be 
said  the  double  or  treble  care  of  the  capital:  to  be  a 
modern  city  respectful  of  its  treasures  and  to  enrich 
it  constantly  by  the  further  discovery  of  ruins.  1 
have  already  spoken  of  the  admirable  work  accom- 
plished in  the  Forum  and  on  the  Capitol.  Now, 
with  the  encroachment  upon  the  Villa  Mills,  the 
"archaeological  promenade"  is  to  be  laid  out.  A 
great,  circular  male  or  boulevard  has  been  opened  at 
the  foot  of  the  Palatine,  Aventine,  and  Capitol  Hills. 
The  route  has  been  laid  out  in  view  of  all  the  data 
•in  existence  upon  the  ancient  monumental  topography 
of  Rome.  These  are  the  poorest  quarters  of  the  city, 
— and  every  hovel  along  the  route  is  to  be  torn  down, 
and  excavations  made.  Rubbish  will  be  cleared 
away,  treasures  dug  up,  the  ground  levelled,  and  the 
beautiful  new  boulevards  will  wind  their  way  around 
the  historic  hills.  I  should  like  to  add  to  this  project 
another,  already  long  talked  of,  and  by  Garibaldi: 
that  of  exploring  the  bed  of  the  Tiber.  How  many 
works  of  art  in  the  museums  now  carry  the  label: 
"  Tevere!"  The  bed  of  the  Tiber  is  still  choked  with 
masterpieces,  especially  near  the  bridges  from  whose 
heights,  either  by  simple  vandalism  or  to  lighten  the 
flight  of  escaping  citizens,  common  thieves  or  pillaging 
foes,  were  thrown  priceless  objects  taken  from  palaces, 
temples,  and  churches.  Garibaldi  wanted  to  turn  the 
course  of  the  Tiber,  let  the  river  bed  dry,  and  excavate. 
The  project  was  simple  and  bold.  The  progress  in 
machinery  now  permits  the  achievement  of  the  same 

17 


258  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

results  at  less  risk.  It  would  be  relatively  easy  to 
sink  caissons  near  the  bridges  of  Sant'  Angelo,  Sisto, 
Palatine,  Fabricio,  among  others.  Over  them  has 
passed  all  the  barbarism  of  the  Middle  Ages,  all  the 
avidity  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  all  the 
lordly  savagery  of  the  armies  of  all  times,  even  our 
own.  The  Tiber  will  be  an  inexhaustible  source  of 
wonders  for  our  children. 


T-wentietH  Day 

AFFECTATIONS 

Villa  Albani 

F  modern  princely  coats  of  arms,  that 
most  often  found  upon  palace,  villa, 
and  vineyard  is  the  Torlonia's.  The 
Torlonia  family  have  no  pope  upon 
the  branches  of  their  ancestral  tree, 
their  nobility  being  too  recent,  for  were  not  the  for- 
tunes of  the  Medici,  the  Rezzonico,  and  the  Chigi  also 
of  mercantile  origin?  The  founder  of  the  family  and 
fortune  died  so  lately  as  1829.  He  was  a  banker  who 
profited  by  the  upheaval  produced  in  Rome  by  the 
French  Government  and  the  restoration  of  the 
papacy.  You  know  Stendhal's  unforgettable  portrait 
of  the  Duke  of  Bracciano.  His  palace,  upon  the 

259 


26o  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Piazza  di  Venezia,  was  demolished  for  the  Victor 
Emmanuel  Monument.  Torlonia  married  his  two 
daughters  to  two  of  the  greatest  Roman  names, 
making  them  princesses.  The  sons  became  princes 
also,  and  today  at  least  ten  palaces,  villas,  or  vine- 
yards bear  their  name.  A  large  part  of  the  Roman 
Campagna  belongs  to  them,  and  their  collections  of 
antiques  are  the  richest  in  Rome  after  those  of  the 
Vatican,  the  Capitol,  and  the  Thermse.  He  is  no 
ordinary  traveller  whom  Don  Giulio  Torlonia  permits 
to  see  the  hundreds  of  masterpieces  of  the  Torlonia 
Museum  which  stands  next  to  the  Corsini  Palace  in 
the  Trastevere.  On  the  other  hand,  Don  Giulio 
willingly  allows  his  Villa  Albani  and  its  treasures  to  be 
seen  by  any  one  recommended  by  a  friend  or  who  can 
prove  his  serious  interest  in  art.  You  saw  this  de- 
lightful place  as  you  were  going  out  the  Via  Nomen- 
tana  on  the  way  to  Santa  Agnese.  It  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  Torlonia  from  the  Borghese  who  had  it 
from  the  Albani. 

It  is  charming  and  instructive.  Since  the  disap- 
pearance of  the  Villa  Ludovisi  and  the  purchase  of 
the  Villa  Borghese  by  the  State,  the  Albani  can  tell 
us  more  details  than  any  other  spot  about  Rome 
concerning  the  nepotic  regime  which  did  so  many 
centuries  of  harm  to  the  papacy.  The  founder  was 
Clement  XI.,  famous  in  France  for  the  Bull  Unigenitus 
which  accomplished  the  ruin  of  Port  Royal.  When 
the  Cardinal  Francesco  Albani  became  pope,  in  1700, 
he  could  look  back  over  two  centuries  and  a  half  in 
which  the  Catholic  realm  had  been  the  prey  of  the 


AFFECTATIONS  261 


brothers  and  nephews  of  the  popes  Pignatelli,  Otto- 
buoni,  Odescalchi,  Altieri,  Rospigliosi,  Chigi,  Pam- 
fili,  Barberini,  Ludovisi,  Borghese,  Aldobrandini, 
Buoncampagni,  Farnese,  Medici,  Rovere,  Borgia  .  .  . 
"helping  themselves,"  as  the  good  President  de 
Brosses  observed,  "while  there  was  time,  since  fresh 
robbers  would  be  sure  to  arrive  as  soon  as  they  had 
enough."  The  pontifical  domain  was  distributed 
among  the  popes  in  imposts,  city  districts,  land, 
villages,  and  open  country.  The  papacy,  like  the  lay 
royalty  of  all  ages,  was  the  source  of  the  fortunes  of 
the  family  of  the  occupant  of  the  throne  and  for  the 
noble  families  enjoying  his  favour,  with  this  aggrava- 
tion that  a  change  of  chief  on  an  average  of  every 
ten  years  created  a  new  corps  with  greater  appetites. 
The  severe  Sixtus  V.  himself  could  not  escape  from  it. 
His  prolific  sister  married  her  daughters  right  and 
left,  dowered  richly  by  the  Church.  Constantine's 
donation  to  the  papacy,  followed  by  those  of  Pepin 
and  of  Charlemagne,  whose  effects  we  saw  in  the 
^Emilia,  the  Marches,  and  in  Umbria,  were  false,  as 
we  know.  They  had  been  accepted,  however,  as 
real,  in  the  belief  that  they  were  made  to  assure  the 
independence  of  the  Apostolic  See  in  the  midst  of 
conquering  Europe;  but,  independence  not  being  good 
enough  for  them,  the  popes  had  turned  the  royal  gifts  to 
the  benefit  of  their  power  as  an  oligarchy.  Instead  of 
using  them  to  assure  the  security  of  the  personage 
representing  the  Church,  they  had  abused  it  to  found 
upon  the  ruins  of  Italy  the  fortunes  of  those  whom 
intrigue  or  chance  carried  to  the  chair  of  Saint  Peter. 


262  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Clement  XI.  was  not  the  man  to  refuse  to  touch  the 
spoils  of  office  sanctified  to  the  papal  family  by  so 
many  generations  of  appropriation.  Even  less  than 
other  men  could  an  Umbrian  Albani  resist  such  estab- 
lished customs.  The  seizure  of  Montefeltro's  prin- 
cipality by  the  papal  nephews  Rovere  for  the  creation 
of  the  Duchy  of  Urbino  by  the  Holy  See  was  the  his- 
tory of  his  native  country.  His  family's  neighbours 
d'  Este  had  the  same  fate,  as  well  as  the  Riarii.  What 
did  he  know  besides  the  detail  of  how  every  rich  domain 
had  fallen,  sooner  or  later,  into  the  hands  of  the  pontiff, 
to  gratify  himself  or  his  relatives?  Why  should  not 
Albani,  too,  bring  with  him  to  Rome  a  large  number 
of  dear  ones  whose  hearts  were  set  upon  gaining  no 
less  than  others  had  done  by  the  usual  methods? 
Nothing  less,  indeed!  This  villa  was  a  bit  of  the 
good  luck  that  fell  to  his  nephew,  Alessandro  Albani, 
Cardinal,  afterwards  Minister  of  State  to  Pius  VIII., 
the  pope  who  reigned  the  one  year  of  1829.  Chateau- 
briand and  Stendhal  agree  in  depicting  that  Albani 
as  lively,  crafty,  and  avaricious.  He  entered  Holy 
Orders  late  in  life,  at  the  time  of  the  Conclave  of  1823, 
from  which  he  expected  much.  His  youth  was  passed 
at  Bologna  where  he  used  to  make  Cantarelli  sing 
the  pieces  he  was  fond  of  composing.  Following  the 
traditions  inherited  from  Clement  XI.,  it  is  said  that 
he  was  well  nourished  by  Austrian  supplies.  In  1829, 
on  the  eve  of  the  first  effort  of  the  Italian  Revolution, 
after  the  years  of  Napoleon's  relatively  liberal  'govern- 
ment, Rome  was  stormy  over  anything  that  recalled 
the  Austrian,  and  the  day  that  Cardinal  Albani  was 


A  FFECTA  TIONS  263 


named  Secretary  of  State  these  words  were  written 
in  chalk  on  the  walls  of  the  Quirinal : 

"Siam  send  si,  ma  serv  ognor  frementi." 

(We  are  slaves,  but  slaves  who  are  always  grumbling.) 

Would  Albani  have  been  astonished  if  he  had  been 
told  that  the  day  would  soon  come  when  this  beauti- 
ful ancestral  villa  would  be  occupied  by  the  children 
of  the  banker  Torlonia,  to  whose  entertainments  he 
went  in  the  Palazzo  Bracciano  in  the  Piazza,  Venezia? 
What  an  eloquent  sign  of  the  regime  to  which  he 
owed  his  fortune,  his  title  of  cardinal,  his  collections, 
and  his  secretaryship!  But  he  would  have  been  in- 
different. In  1815,  when  France  was  obliged  to 
return  to  him  the  three  hundred  works  of  art  that 
Napoleon  had  carried  away,  he  preferred  to  sell  them 
to  the  King  of  Bavaria,  rather  than  pay  the  transpor- 
tation— the  profit  was  twice  the  cost.  The  mortal 
wound  of  the  papacy  had  been  just  that  indifference 
and  rapacity.  The  pope  could  see  high  and  wide. 
He  can  still.  His  entourage,  whether  of  his  family 
or  functionaries,  annihilate  all  disinterested  efforts 
by  its  anxiety  not  only  for  the  present  generation, 
but  for  the  imminent  moment.  As  for  the  future  God 
will  provide!  To  get  rich  and  keep  hold  of  power  are 
the  only  thoughts  in  the  Vatican  where  the  pope  alone 
is  anxious  for  the  general  good.  The  avidity  no 
longer  has  the  same  object:  it  aims  now  at  power;  it 
is  less  vulgar  than  formerly,  but  it  is  equally  short- 
sighted and  fatal  to  the  Church.  The  nephew  of 


264  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Clement  XI.  thought  principally  of  surrounding  him- 
self with  works  of  art,  as  did  the  nephews  of  the  popes, 
his  predecessors,  the  Ludovisi,  the  Barberini,  and  the 
Pamfili  whose  villa  on  the  Janiculum  and  whose 
palaces,  also,  have  passed  into  the  hands  of  merchants, 
the  Doria. 

Outside  of  the  Porta  Salaria,  close  to  the  city  walls, 
shut  in  between  the  houses  of  the  new  quarter,  the 
Villa  Albani,  in  its  general  arrangement,  resembles 
the  Villa  Pamfili,  but  a  Pamfili  reduced  to  a  citi- 
fied appearance.  A  great  park,  planted  with  some 
rare  trees,  leads  to  the  casino  overlooking  a  formal 
garden  made  in  flat,  circular  stripes  and  enclosed  by 
a  second  structure  above  which  one  used  to  see  the 
Sabine  Mountains  in  the  distance,  now  only  six- 
storeyed  apartment  houses.  The  most  striking  thing 
about  this  garden,  which  Burckhardt  has  pointed  out 
so  well  in  spite  of  his  avowed  ignorance  of  garden  art, 
and  that  which  makes  this  villa  still  more  characteristic 
than  the  Pamfili  among  Italian  gardens,  is  its  en- 
tirely architectural  arrangement.  Except  a  corner 
near  the  entrance  on  the  left,  where  it  is  necessary  to 
hide  a  servants'  lodge  by  a  thick  grove  and  bushes  in 
comparative  disorder,  nothing  at  the  Albani  is  left 
free  to  Nature.  No  attempt  is  made  to  imitate  natural 
wildness,  as  in  the  so-called  English  garden  or  the 
corners  given  over  to  the  umbrella  pines  and  the 
anemone  field  of  the  Pamfili. 

The  upper  grounds  upon  which  one  arrives  from 
the  park  and  from  which  one  descends  into  the 
garden  is  laid  out  like  a  chessboard.  The  paths 


AFFECTATIONS  265 


intersect  at  right  angles,  forming  dense  copses 
shaven  close  as  the  head  of  a  French  soldier.  You 
walk  between  green  walls  scarcely  higher  than 
you  are  and  where  not  a  bud  sticks  out  beyond 
the  even  surface.  In  the  southern  half  of  this 
park  I  counted  seven  transverse  paths  united  by 
three  running  in  longitudinal  direction,  all  drawn  by 
line  and  compass.  The  northern  half,  equally  geo- 
metrical, but  differing  in  design,  has  a  magnificent, 
large  round  centre,  shaded  by  three  umbrella  pines 
which  lance  eight  paths  in  low-trimmed  quincunces, 
all  as  straight  and  close-cropped  as  the  others,  toward 
the  ends  of  the  garden.  It  is  by  these  ways,  between 
two  verdant  walls,  that  you  reach  the  terrace  and  the 
steps  which  dominate  the  garden  of  the  flat  stripes. 
This  also  is  enclosed  by  hedges,  but  here  we  are  under 
the  eye  of  the  master,  an  eye  demanding  that  Nature 
be  laid  out  and  decorated  like  a  palace.  Bushes  are 
treated  like  veritable  fagades,  from  time  to  time  cut 
into  niches  with  columns  and  pedestals  whereon  have 
been  placed  busts  and  statues,  above  which  emerge 
sawed-off  and  levelled  cypresses  like  soup-pots  above 
a  balustrade.  If  you  go  down  into  the  pit  framed  by 
all  this  verdure  you  will  find  a  great  flower  garden. 
Here  the  designer's  pencil  must  have  taken  vengeance 
on  the  constraint  it  had  endured  on  the  terrace  above : 
not  a  straight  line,  not  a  simple,  clear-cut  design  is 
seen.  You  would  say  that  the  garden  represented  a 
knot  of  snakes,  the  head  of  Medusa,  or  the  Erinyes, 
Proserpine's  hair,  or  is  it  simply  to  represent  a  tangled 
bundle  of  ribbons?  Look  nearer,  or  rather  higher: 


266  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


from  the  terrace  of  the  villa.  These  designs  corre- 
spond to  the  architectural  ideal  of  the  epoch.  Ara- 
besques, volutes,  tongues,  and  serpents  turn,  twine, 
intersect,  and  mingle  together.  We  know  those 
supple  lines!  The  Baroque  art  has  been  applied  to 
plants. 

It  is  not  only  these  floral  embroideries  that  re- 
mind me  of  some  monumental  motif,  I  see  projec- 
tions of  a  door,  a  fronton,  even  of  a  belfry.  It  bears 
a  striking  resemblance  to  Santa  Maria  della  Vittoria, 
the  church  where  Bernini's  Saint  Theresa  lies  in  a 
faint.  The  same  arrangement,  the  same  excess. 
Here  it  seems  to  say  that  these  flowers  are  not  beau- 
tiful in  themselves,  they  could  only  please  by  being 
forced  to  play  some  part  foreign  to  their  nature,  as  if, 
at  every  instant,  they  recalled  the  human  intervention 
to  which  they  owed  their  place  on  the  stage.  And 
this  they  could  not  recall  except  by  their  uniced  sub- 
mission to  the  same  ideal. 

Yet  this  is  not  ugly,  and  I  am  convinced  once 
more  that  real  ugliness  is  but  incongruity.  Every- 
thing that  holds  together  has  a  reason  for  existence. 
We  may  not  like  it,  but  there  is  a  certain  beauty 
in  every  harmonious  whole.  What  we  call  the 
Louis  Philippe  furniture  is  displeasing,  and  be- 
cause we  have  but  pieces  of  it  lost  among  our 
Louis  XV.  or  Louis  XVI.  decorations  or  amid  our 
modern  furniture.  Reconstruct  a  suite  of  rooms  in 
that  mediocre  style  and  the  pieces  would  take  on  their 
proper  value,  inferior  no  doubt,  but  not  so  shocking 
after  all.  There  is  more  to  be  said  of  the  style  of 


Anderson 


Antinous,  Villa  Albani 


Anderson 


VUla  Albani 


The  Fountain  at  the  Villa  Albani 


The  View  at  the  Villa  Albani 


Anderson 


A  FFECTA  TIONS  267 


these  gardens,  however,  which  has  its  part  in  the 
general  conception.  You  can  see  that  its  essential 
relation  to  the  house  was  in  the  mind  of  the  architect 
who  designed  the  whole.  These  flat  stripes  have 
reference  not  only  to  the  lines  of  the  villa,  but  in  cor- 
respondence with  its  ceilings  and  its  hangings.  It  is  a 
way  of  understanding  Nature  peculiar  to  this  country. 
Those  who  think  that  they  see  a  model  garden  at 
Versailles  are  much  mistaken.  There  are  the  same 
prunings,  necessarily,  for  furbelows,  but  with  us,  once 
the  path  or  the  avenue  is  laid  out,  the  great  trees  are 
allowed  to  grow  naturally.  The  flat  stripes,  especially 
in  borders,  are  straight  and  the  flowers  are  free.  The 
French  garden  is  a  conception  quite  different  from  that 
of  the  Italian  garden,  and  the  English  garden  is  yet 
another  thing.  The  celebrated  saying  of  Fontana 
sums  up  the  landscape  feeling  of  the  Baroque  artists : 
Nature  is  made  to  furnish  a  place  in  which  to  spread 
out  the  most  beautiful  conceptions  of  that  art  of 
architecture. 

The  main  buildings  occupy  the  two  smaller  sides 
of  the  quadrilateral  of  this  garden.  The  first  of  the 
long  sides  is  bounded  the  entire  length  by  the  trimmed 
hedge,  set  with  statues,  which  sustains  the  park  laid 
out  in  quincunces.  The  second  long  side  is  dominated 
by  a  terrace  upon  which  rises  a  small  building  known 
as  the  Billiard  and  composed  of  what  we  should  call 
his  children's  apartments,  if  we  were  not  speaking  of 
the  residence  of  a  cardinal — the  nephews'  rooms,  let  us 
say  prudently.  Of  the  two  greater  buildings  which 
command  the  two  small  sides,  the  principal  one  is  the 


268  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

casino,  built  by  Carlo  Marchione,  who  continued  the 
work  of  Maderno  and  the  Fontanas,  one  of  whom, 
Carlo,  was  living  at  the  same  time  as  Marchione. 
To  do  Marchione  justice,  he  applied  his  theories 
in  all  their  amplitude  only  to  the  garden.  The  casino 
is  far  from  participating  in  the  serpentine  orgy. 
Little  as  they  were  esteemed  at  Rome,  the  Renais- 
sance palaces  seem  to  have  made  such  an  impression 
that  no  one  dared  depart  very  far  from  their  model. 
The  Villa  Pamfili  has  a  little  the  air  of  a  Florentine 
villa.  The  Villa  Albani  is  still  less  shining  with 
Baroque  splendour,  which,  anyway  is  generally  less 
corrupt  in  its  civil  architecture  than  in  its  churches. 
No  doubt  that  madness  was  authorized  by  the  fact 
that  it  was  for  God.  Did  the  cardinals  intend  to 
remain  modern?  Certainly  they  refrained  from  ex- 
tremes. The  casino,  one  storey  high  and  crowned  by  a 
gallery  above  a  very  broad  portico,  is  well  suited  to 
repose  and  to  the  long  summer  evenings,  a  most  con- 
venient paradise  for  a  wearied  Roman  who  might  long 
to  breathe  the  fresh  air  from  the  Sabines  and  enjoy 
the  play  of  the  moonlight  on  the  verdure  and  the 
distant  rocks.  The  rooms  are  spacious,  but  we  can- 
not enter  them  without  receiving  a  shock  from  the 
gilded  ceilings  and  the  coarse  marquetry  of  the  doors. 
The  vestibules  and  the  staircase  are  of  pretty  design, 
enlivened  by  statues,  all  in  white,  either  of  marble  or 
imitation,  presenting  soft  contours  to  the  eye.  They 
swear  a  little  at  the  red  which  dominates  the  recep- 
tion rooms.  One  must  choose  what  one  likes.  In 
one  corner  we  come  upon  a  charming  surprise  in  a 


AFFECTATIONS  269 


small  room  with  decorations  purporting  to  be  Chinese. 
In  this  villa,  unlike  most  others,  we  find  appealing 
traces  of  life:  tables,  arm-chairs,  beds,  carpets,  vases 
for  flowers,  candelabra  with  their  candles,  the  prie- 
dieu,  the  writing  desk,  the  toilet  table,  in  brief  the 
things  of  daily  use.  One  might  shut  the  door,  draw 
the  curtains,  and  go  to  bed.  There  is  a  charming 
intimacy  and  familiarity  about  it.  I  should  like  to 
ring  to  order  lights  out.  .  .  . 

Opposite  the  casino,  with  the  pretty  stretch  across 
the  terrace  between,  is  the  Caffe,  a  pavilion  in  the  same 
style  as  the  casino,  but  more  flowery.  On  entering 
by  the  concave  portico  I  am  in  a  great  hall,  with 
painted  ceiling  and  generally  overcharged  decorations, 
that  gives  upon  a  terrace  overlooking  another  garden 
now  abandoned.  That  is  all  there  is  of  this  building 
whose  use  was  simply  for  a  change  of  place,  to  take 
coffee  and  the  siesta  when  the  sun  was  full  on  the 
casino,  or  to  catch  the  wind  on  warm  nights. 

Here  is  the  frame.  We  have  had  the  portrait  of 
the  master,  Cardinal  Alessandro  Albani,  nephew  of 
Pope  Clement  XL,  lover  of  the  arts  and,  like  his  pre- 
decessors in  the  functions  of  nephew,  protector  of 
artists,  dreaming  of  making  his  name  as  famous  in 
the  history  of  art  as  that  of  the  Farnese.  Good  for- 
tune put  in  his  way  a  scholar  who  was  also  an  artist 
of  the  first  order,  Winckelman.  Winckelman  had  the 
taste  and  the  science,  the  cardinal  had  the  desire  and 
the  money.  They  understood  each  other  and,  in 
the  course  of  several  years,  the  Villa  Albani  became 
an  important  museum  which  today  overflows  into 


270  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

the  other  as  well  as  into  the  Torlonia  palaces.  When 
you  have  an  opportunity  to  visit  the  Villa  Albani  stay 
there  as  long  as  you  can,  since  good  taste  forbids  the 
request  for  a  second  card.  You  will  find  there,  among 
some  perfect  works,  a  dozen  "bits"  so  necessary  to 
your  study  of  the  antique  that  without  them  your 
ideas  upon  it  must  be  false.  An  entire  afternoon  is 
not  too  much  to  pass  among  them  and  in  these  paths, 
under  the  umbrella  pines  of  the  great  round,  and  under 
the  oaks  of  the  terrace,  cut  in  vistas  even  with  the 
gallery  to  afford  views  and  light. 

As  I  am  making  neither  a  catalogue  nor  a  treatise  of 
these  pages,  I  shall  not  enter  into  the  details  of  the  col- 
lection, less  masterly  than  those  of  the  Capitol  and  the 
Thermae,  but  as  important  and  quite  as  suggestive. 
The  traveller  who  wishes  to  deepen  somewhat  the 
sublime  impression  received  at  the  Vatican  and  at  the 
Baths,  should  follow  a  systematic  and  not  a  cursive 
method  in  looking  at  them.  Do  not  try  to  see  every- 
thing, much  less  to  examine  everything.  Try  rather 
to  clarify  what  you  have  already  begun  to  understand 
upon  some  definite  subject,  to  seek  an  answer  to  some 
question  determined  upon  beforehand  with  the  help 
of  your  guide-book.  Go,  if  necessary,  twenty  times, 
from  one  object  to  another,  comparing  them  with 
others  already  known,  until  suddenly  a  summing  up 
of  the  relation  between  them  will  dawn  upon  you. 
Then  you  are  no  longer  vagabonds  in  art,  but  well- 
informed  and  thinking  explorers.  You  go  away  the 
richer  by  two  or  three  ideas.  Of  course  it  is  ridicu- 
lous to  think  of  learning  to  understand  Greek  art 


AFFECTATIONS  271 


within  a  few  days,  but  we  all  can  try  to  get  some 
light  upon  it. 

For  instance,  if  we  put  these  two  steles  of  the  sixth 
century  B.C.  beside  the  Birth  of  Venus  in  the  Thermas 
of  Diocletian,  adding  the  bas-relief  here,  in  the  Casino, 
called  a  Group  of  Equestrian  Combatants  which  is  of 
the  fifth  century,  we  see  this:  In  the  sixth  century 
perfection  was  virtually  attained;  the  artist  only 
lacked  a  little  audacity ;  the  figures  did  not  quite  dare 
to  move.  Seated  they  were  somewhat  like  dolls,  in 
three  pieces,  bust,  thighs,  and  legs.  But  look  at  the 
drapery ;  it  was  as  soft  and  pliable  in  the  sixth  century 
as  in  the  fifth.  Look  at  the  gestures  of  arms  and 
hands;  they  are  perfect.  The  fifth  century  did  no 
better.  Look  at  the  child  in  the  arms  of  his  mother. 
He  is  not  seated,  but  he  already  bends,  like  the  Hours 
in  the  Birth  of  Venus.  The  piece  scarcely  shows  less 
of  purity,  truth,  and  expression  than  the  Combatants. 
By  such  comparisons  we  can  come  upon  the  march 
of  progress  in  the  act.  We  divine  the  tottering  steps, 
we  follow  the  traces  of  timidity  of  those  artists  freed 
enough  to  do  what  they  wanted  to  with  the  upper 
members  of  the  body,  but  not  daring  yet  to  move  the 
legs.  In  the  sixth  century  they,  too,  flew  through 
the  air,  like  those  of  the  Laconian  in  the  Vatican. 

Let  us  also  profit  by  the  fact  that  we  have  under 
our  eyes  the  best  copy  of  the  Sauroctonus  to  note  once 
more  the  excessive  sweetness  of  Praxiteles  by  which 
Canova  allowed  himself  to  be  too  much  charmed,  since 
he  could  not  see  it  all  for  himself  in  life.  Praxiteles 
treated  everything  almost  alike,  with  the  same  loving 


272  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

chisel,  afraid,  one  might  say,  to  displease  his  models. 
Without  going  so  far  as  to  say  with  Stendhal  that  the 
faces  of  the  antiques  have  a  stupid  look,  one  may  say 
that  the  antique  face  has  not  the  expression  of  viva- 
city to  which  we  have  become  accustomed  by  the 
modern  face,  because  the  entire  body  expresses  feel- 
ings and  the  result  is  that  the  art  of  Praxiteles,  so 
charming,  so  taking  at  first,  soon  becomes  fatiguing 
and  we  hasten  to  take  a  bath  in  virility  and  real  truth 
from  Scopas,  from  Myron,  and  from  Leochares.  I 
could  almost  say  that  Praxiteles  was  something  of  a 
Grecian  Perugino — with  genius  and  veritable  grandeur 
added. 

The  original  Greek  art  is  represented  at  the  Villa 
Albani  by  specimens  of  a  sort  not  found  in  such  num- 
bers anywhere  else  except  at  Athens:  I  mean  the  steles, 
one  of  which  I  cited  just  now  for  comparison.  The 
co-operation  of  Winckelmann's  scholarly  attainments 
in  their  collection  is  evident.  The  statue  exalts  the 
sentiment  of  the  beautiful,  but  teaches  little.  The 
steles,  the  bas-reliefs,  on  the  contrary,  are  inexhaust- 
ible mines  of  knowledge.  In  them  we  find  clothes, 
head-dresses — the  famous  Patin  hat  was  taken  from 
them — shoes,  utensils,  beds,  vases,  lamps,  animals,  and 
the  arms  of  warfare  and  the  hunt.  What  writer  upon 
ancient  manners  has  not  drawn  from  the  bas-reliefs 
for  his  descriptions?  Those  of  the  Villa  Albani  are 
numerous  enough  for  many  Fabiolas.  On  the  stele 
I  cited  above  we  may  see  how  the  Greek  fashion  of 
dressing  the  hair,  which  became  so  charming  on  the 
head  of  the  Laconian  in  the  Vatican,  was,  in  the  sixth 


AFFECTATIONS  273 


century,  heavy,  thick,  falling  upon  the  forehead  and 
upon  the  neck,  drawn  and  constrained.  The  Warrior 
of  the  Villa  Albani  is  famous  the  world  over.  The 
soldier  enemy  is  on  the  ground,  and  the  raging  Greek 
has  jumped  from  his  horse  to  finish  his  victim.  The 
freedom  of  movement,  the  easy  hang  of  the  drapery 
on  the  torso,  the  realism  in  the  wounded  man  lying 
on  the  ground,  are  more  than  enough  to  show  us  that 
the  stage  of  perfection  has  been  reached.  Already, 
in  the  fifth  century,  as  is  proved  in  the  bas-relief 
called  Hermes,  Eurydice  and  Orpheus,  one  may  fore- 
see the  Alexandrian  school  from  which  we  have  in- 
herited the  bas-relief  of  the  Capitol,  Perseus  holding 
out  his  hand  to  Andromeda  delivered,  exactly  as  a 
gentleman  helps  a  lady  to  alight  from  a  carriage,  while 
Andromeda,  in  floating  veils,  daintily  raises  the  front 
of  her  skirt.  That  does  not  belong  to  the  rank  of  the 
Albani  reliefs.  Nor  is  Electra  and  Orestes  in  the  Ther- 
mae of  their  category.  In  those  two  we  see  the  over- 
development, the  pushing  too  far  of  the  qualities  of 
grace  and  of  restraint  characterizing  the  Albani  steles, 
that  purity  of  expression,  that  care  to  preserve  a 
beautiful  line,  the  over-development  by  which  the 
Alexandrine  school  was  lost. 

Would  you  like  to  make  a  comparative  study  of 
some  of  the  best  Greek  works  beside  Roman  copies 
which  also  are  remarkable?  This  is  your  opportunity, 
thanks  to  a  large  assemblage  of  both  in  rather  a  small 
field.  Would  you  like  to  distinguish  the  original 
Greek  work  from  its  Roman  copy,  or  to  distinguish 
the  Greek  from  the  Roman  in  general?  For  this  last 
itt 


274  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

problem,  the  study  is  made  not  easy,  but  approach- 
able by  the  Antinous,  the  most  beautiful  of  all  Anti- 
nouses.  The  Caryatides,  also,  may  be  studied.  You 
may  follow  the  decadence  of  Roman  art  as  it  became 
more  and  more  heavy,  massive,  and  "stuffed,"  striv- 
ing after  majestic  effects  rather  than  expressing  real 
force.  The  range  of  subjects  for  such  observation  is 
unlimited.  Whatever  one  you  choose  will  not  fail  to 
be  fruitful,  if  you  know  how  to  look  and  think.  Above 
and  beyond  everything  else,  pure  beauty,  quite  of 
itself,  without  your  looking  for  it,  will  seize  upon  you 
every  instant.  You  will  go  out  of  the  Villa  Albani 
ennobled  and  enriched.  I  have  passed  here  one  of 
the  most  fertile  of  my  Roman  days,  a  day  that  has 
yielded  me  two  or  three  clear  and  leading  ideas.  I 
came  to  it  with  less  fever  than  that  which  consumed 
me  when  I  visited  the  Vatican,  where  I  received  the 
first  kiss  of  the  Greek;  I  have  learned  to  have  more 
perspicacity  in  my  choice,  to  be  more  discriminating 
in  my  loves. 


Twenty-first  Day 

ANNIBALE'S  VIOLINS 

XHe  Palaces 

N  opening  my  window  this  morning  I 
saw  the  palace  of  Monte  Citorio  for 
the  first  time.  Yet  it  has  stood  in 
front  of  me  ever  since  I  have  been  in 
Rome.  I  have  not  been  able  to  raise 
my  curtain  or  to  approach  the  mirror  without  having 
its  great  fagade  spread  out  before  my  eyes,  and  I  often 
amuse  myself  over  the  relieving  of  the  guard.  Now 

275 


276  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

I  look  at  the  great,  red,  slightly  rounded  wall,  the 
narrow  door,  the  shut  windows,  and  the  little  campanile 
telling  off  the  hours  of  my  winged  vacation.  Why  do 
I  see  it  for  the  first  time  now?  Last  night,  after  visit- 
ing the  Villa  Albani,  I  came  in  with  thoughts  full  of 
Roman  palaces  and  their  significance,  artistic,  and 
social.  This  morning  Monte  Citorio  impressed  me  as 
a  palace  for  the  first  time.  It  was  begun  by  Bernini 
for  the  Ludovisi.  Gregory  XV.  was  pope  from  1621 
to  1623.  After  the  first  year  of  that  reign,  the  Ludo- 
visi family  was  so  well  provided  for  that  it  was  able 
to  build  this  celebrated  palace,  and,  after  five  years, 
to  lodge  itself  in  this  colossal  style.  Some  seventy 
years  later,  Innocent  XII.  bought  it  of  the  Ludovisi, 
commissioning  Fontana  to  complete  it  for  a  wider 
scope,  so  that  before  sheltering  the  Italian  Parlia- 
ment, as  it  does  now,  Monte  Citorio  housed  the  pope's 
justice,  or,  rather,  the  papal  tribunals.  This  was  one 
of  the  first  palaces  to  dazzle  Rome  with  Baroque  de- 
corations ;  it  shows  us  what  Michelangelo's  art  became 
in  the  hands  of  his  vain  and  incapable  successors. 
"My  style,"  said  Michelangelo,  "is  destined  to  make 
great  fools."  It  will  be  interesting,  in  my  walk 
today,  to  verify  his  words.  In  the  ancient  field  of 
the  Campus  Martius,  comprised  between  the  Pincio, 
the  Quirinal,  the  Capitol,  and  the  Tiber,  which 
was  the  Rome  of  the  popes  and  is  still  the  live- 
liest part  of  the  city,  I  am  going  to  look  for  the 
palaces  of  the  once  great  and  to  look  at  them  with 
attention,  profiting,  at  the  same  time,  by  the  op- 
portunity to  see  pictures,  for  painting  is  none  too 


AN  NIB  ALE'S  VIOLINS  277 

abundant  in  Rome.  Apart  from  the  frescoes,  which 
anyway  are  rare  compared  to  the  numbers  in  Tuscany, 
I  have  only  seen  thus  far  the  galleries  of  the  Vatican, 
reduced  to  three  halls,  and  the  paintings  of  the  Villa 
Borghese,  the  Palazzo  dei  Conservatori,  the  Palazzo 
Cesarini,  and  of  the  Accademia  di  San  Luca,  a  poor 
enough  showing  taken  together,  although  each  con- 
tains some  master  works,  such  as  the  Communion  of 
Saint  Jerome,  and  the  Transfiguration,  Sacred  Love, 
Saint  Petronilla,  the  Muses,  and  some  works  of  Cana- 
letti.  The  palaces  of  the  Barberini,  Rospigliosi, 
Colonna,  and  Doria  number  some  famous  canvases 
among  their  collections,  and  I  hope,  at  least,  that  they 
will  make  me  forget  my  surprise  at  finding  Rome  so 
inferior  to  Florence  and  Milan  where  the  museums 
hold  the  traveller  entire  weeks  without  exhausting 
his  interest.  The  day  will  be  well  filled  indeed  if  I 
finish  it  at  the  Farnese  Palace  where  San  Gallo  the 
Younger,  Michelangelo,  Annibale  Carracci,  and  Mon- 
sieur the  Ambassador  of  France  have  called  me! 

I  said  just  now  that  Monte  Citorio  was  the  work 
of  the  Ludovisi,  an  indulgence  in  that  great  fortune 
made  in  Gregory  XV. 's  reign  of  two  years.  The  Bar- 
berini Palace  was  built  in  1 624,  by  his  successor  Urban 
VIII.  Barberini.  The  Rospigliosi,  built  by  a  Borghese 
cardinal  in  1603,  was  bought  in  1667,  the  year  of  his 
election,  by  Clement  IX.  Rospigliosi  for  his  nephews. 
The  Colonna,  of  the  first  style,  before  the  reconstruc- 
tion of  the  seventeenth  century,  is  the  work  of  Martin 
V.  when  he  mounted  the  pontifical  chair  in  1417. 
The  Palazzo  San  Marco  was  called  into  being  by 


278     •  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Cardinal  Barbo,  who  became  Pope  Paul  II.  in  1464. 
The  Cancelleria  was  constructed  by  the  Cardinal 
Riario,  nephew  of  Sixtus  IV.  and  cousin  germain  of 
Julius  II.  Cardinal  Alessandro  Farnese  began  the 
Farnese  in  about  1514,  some  twenty  years  before  his 
election  as  Paul  III.  In  1608,  three  years  after  his 
election,  Paul  V.  bought  the  Borghese  of  Cardinal 
Dezza  and  finished  it.  Enough  of  dry  dates!  They 
repeat  themselves  indefinitely  for  all  the  palaces. 
The  papacy  served  to  enrich  the  family,  and  when  the 
election  fell  to  a  man  already  rich,  such  as  a  Borgia, 
Farnese,  Chigi,  it  served  to  increase  the  fortune  of  the 
clan.  In  such  cases  the  terms  of  the  problem  were 
inverted :  the  fortune  procured  the  function,  the  func- 
tion assured  the  fortune,  and  nothing  was  changed. 
The  popes'  care  of  their  families  began  with  their 
nephews  and  nieces.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
normal  than  that,  and  it  is  only  childish  to  judge  them 
rigorously  for  it.  The  whole  world  did  the  same. 
All  thrones  were  considered  as  personal  property  with 
which  the  proprietor  of  the  moment  had  a  right  to 
do  as  he  pleased,  and  of  which,  moreover,  he  would 
have  shown  himself  unworthy  if  he  had  not  assured 
the  glory  of  his  own  family.  It  was  a  point  of  honour 
with  the  popes  to  see  their  relatives  independent, 
that  some  had  lands  and  important  offices,  that  others 
were  gathered  around  the  papal  chair  in  a  sufficiently 
numerous  troupe  of  servitors  and  dependents.  It 
was  important,  also,  that  the  papal  family  held  its 
head  high  in  the  world  of  royalty,  where  it  claimed  its 
place  the  more  insistently,  lacking  welcome.  The 


ANNIBALE'S  VIOLINS  279 

popes  did  not  digest  that  answer  given  by  Charles  of 
Anjou,  brother  of  Saint  Louis,  to  Nicholas  III.  Orsini 
when  he  wanted  Charles's  daughter  to  marry  his 
nephew:  "A  pope,  although  wearing  the  purple,  not 
having  inherited  his  power,  is  not  worthy  to  mingle 
his  blood  with  the  blood  of  France."  The  popes 
aspired  to  nothing  so  much  as  to  mingle  their  blood 
with  that  of  royalty,  and  they  attained  their  desire 
by  boldness,  prestige,  and  money. 

In  looking  at  these  Roman  palaces,  we  must  not 
forget  the  times  in  which  they  were  built  and  the 
passions  which  made  them  necessary,  or  we  shall  fail 
to  understand  them.  Seen  from  the  angle  of  reason, 
they  are  explicable,  although  certain  of  them  must 
fail  to  satisfy  a  severe  taste.  And  what  is  taste? 
The  art  of  tying  one's  cravat  in  matters  intellectual, 
says  Goethe.  Taste  changes,  like  the  fashion  in 
tying  cravats.  There  is  but  one  thing  that  does  not 
change,  the  deed  and  its  consequences.  So,  I  have 
looked  well,  with  impartial  eye,  at  the  Baroque  palaces 
before  entering  them.  Not  one  of  them  but  has  all 
the  faults  of  that  style :  rant,  insanity,  and  turgidness. 
They  mingle  all  the  orders  of  architecture,  piling  one 
upon  another.  They  force  every  part  to  say  the 
opposite  of  what  it  should  express,  making  round  that 
which  should  be  square;  oval,  that  which  should  be 
round,  forcing  columns  to  lie  down  and  pinnacles  to 
stand  on  their  heads,  compelling  everything  to  bloom 
with  extravagant  and  colossal  decorations.  I  saw 
that  in  all  its  entirety  at  Modena.  But  at  Modena 
I  was,  at  length,  reduced  to  indulgence.  After  I 


280  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

began  to  appreciate  that  my  severity  was  due,  in 
part,  to  the  comparisons  that  I  could  draw  between 
the  Baroque  art  and  that  of  the  Renaissance,  I  re- 
cognized certain  intrinsic  merits  in  the  Baroque. 
In  brief,  having  thought  about  it,  I  became  less 
severe  upon  it. T 

In  Rome  I  am  struck  by  the  same  points  of  com- 
parison which  at  the  outset  fill  me  with  the  old  aver- 
sion. I  am  pitiless  for  the  Doria,  the  Barberini,  the 
Rospigliosi,  because  they  had  the  Farnese,  the  San 
Marco,  and  especially  the  Cancelleria,  purest  of  all, 
under  their  eyes,  yet  took  no  heed  of  such  good  models, 
rather  denying  their  unity,  the  sobriety,  and  the  logic 
which  make  the  Renaissance  palaces  perfect  works 
with  which  no  one  can  ever  find  fault.  That  said, 
witness  borne,  here,  no  more  than  at  Modena,  can  I 
hold  my  indignation  long.  The  reasons  of  last  year 
at  Modena  hold  good  in  Rome  today,  and  to  them  I 
add  others,  purely  Roman,  from  which  I  cannot  escape. 
Yesterday,  at  the  Albani,  I  asked  myself  if  the  Far- 
nese, the  Cancelleria,  the  Massimi,  the  Giraud,  and 
the  other  Renaissance  palaces  in  Rome  had  not 
restrained  the  fatal  descent  of  the  architects  of  the 
centuries  subsequent  to  their  destruction,  since  the 
profane  works  of  the  Berninis  irritated  me  less  than 
their  religious  works.  Possibly,  but  not  much,  for 
influences  of  that  sort  are  obscure  and  diffuse,  working 
unknown  to  the  artist,  certainly  not  by  his  will.  If 
Borromini  had  been  impressed  by  the  neighbouring 
Cancelleria  he  would  not  have  built  the  Sant'  Agnese 
1  Little  Cities  of  Italy,  vol.  ii.,  chap.  v. 


Anderson 

Farnese  Palace,  Portico 


Anderson 

Farnese  Palace  from  the  Rear 


ANNIBALE'S   VIOLINS  281 

of  the  Piazza  Navona  beside  the  Spada.  Why  then  is 
Saint  Agnes 's  suggestive  of  the  Cancelleria?  Is  it? 
To  me,  yes,  and  that  is  where  the  fine  shade  of  feeling 
comes  in. 

The  Baroque  palaces  are,  like  all  the  works  of  this 
epoch,  contrary  to  law,  I  mean  to  reason.  But  they 
were  dwellings  made  to  dazzle  the  beholder  and  noth- 
ing can  do  more  dazzling  for  the  money  than  that  art. 
The  times,  political  and  social  conditions,  changed 
between  the  Renaissance  and  the  Baroque  periods, 
between  the  fifteenth  and  the  seventeenth  centuries. 
One  year  in  that  time,  the  year  1530,  upset  the  peoples 
and  the  thrones  of  the  world.  Before  that,  the  papacy 
was  seeking,  trembling  every  day  for  its  existence.  It 
was  not  admitted  into  the  European  concert.  It  was 
struck  in  the  back.  When  a  Barbo  raised  the  Palazzo 
of  San  Marco,  a  Riario  the  Cancelleria,  there  were 
but  a  few  Quattrocentists  to  whom  beauty  gave 
direct  satisfaction.  Bramante  and  San  Gallo  arrived 
later,  and  Peruzzi  also,  to  maintain  the  tradition. 
But  they  were  soon  overcome  by  the  political  and 
social  overturning  which  divided  Italy  between  the 
pope  and  Charles  V.  Then  the  popes  became  kings, 
sure  of  the  next  day,  and  installed  themselves.  Re- 
cognized sovereigns,  respected  and  tranquil,  their 
thought  turned  to  showing  themselves  off,  a  matter 
in  which  the  usefulness  of  palaces  was  fully  appreciated. 
They  formed  a  brilliant  court  around  the  Vatican, 
inhabited  as  they  were  by  the  papal  families  whose 
interest  was  to  conserve  an  advantageous  regime. 
All  that  would  give  prestige  to  the  apostolic  descent 


282  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

would  fall  back  upon  the  apostle.  The  interests  were 
bound  together,  the  pope  could  live  tranquilly.  The 
more  the  gaze  of  the  crowd  could  be  fascinated, 
the  more  assured  would  be  the  pontifical  power. 
Such  opulent  and  magnificent  personages  would  be 
respected. 

See  this  Barberini  palace  towering  above  the  square 
which  it  commands,  its  iron  gates,  wrought  like  a  coffer, 
opening  on  the  garden  with  the  broad  flight  of  steps. 
The  palace  offers  enormous  arches  for  carriages  to 
pass  through,  and  the  two  storeys  above  present  an 
extraordinary  confusion  of  the  three  orders  of  archi- 
tecture among  the  maddest  orgy  of  ornaments.  Im- 
possible to  pass  that  building  without  saying  that  the 
proprietor  must  enjoy  great  revenues  and  a  high 
position !  The  Colonna  family  could  not  keep  Martin 
V.'s  Renaissance  palace  in  its  pristine  beauty.  In 
danger  of  losing  their  place  in  the  procession,  they 
were  obliged,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  to  make  it 
over  according  to  the  taste  of  the  day.  The  Borghese, 
knowing  that  modesty  is  forbidden  the  parvenu, 
hastened  to  leave  the  Rospigliosi  for  the  present 
Borghese  Palace,  enormously  and  massively  imposing. 
Every  palace  in  Rome  built  after  1550  sprang  up  upon 
this  principle  of  ostentation.  The  times  were  fully 
ripe  for  Bernini  when  he  appeared.  The  taste  of  his 
day  had  need  of  him  and  created  him,  it  was  not  he 
who  formed  that  taste.  The  pope  in  the  lead,  all 
rich  Romans  wanted  to  cut  a  dash  in  the  world,  and 
the  best  way  then,  as  now,  was  to  have  a  city  house 
which  the  passer-by  would  crane  his  neck  to  look  at 


AN  NIB ALE'S   VIOLINS  283 

and  whose  walls  displayed  the  size  of  the  owner's 
fortune  or  exaggerated  it,  which  was  so  much  the 
better.  Then,  why  are  we  so  shocked  at  an  art  in 
such  perfect  harmony  with  the  manners  that  created 
it? 

If  I  am  no  longer  indignant  over  the  Baroque,  it 
is  because  I  now  understand  that  it  expresses  exactly 
what  it  wishes  to  say.  Never  was  style  so  frank. 
Before  certain  Renaissance  palaces, — the  San  Marco, 
for  instance, — we  find  ourselves  wondering  if  we  are 
not  looking  at  a  fortress,  but  no  hesitation  is  possible 
before  the  Barberini  or  Colonna.  These  are  palaces, 
the  houses  of  great  nobles  who  kept  within  their 
grasp  all  that  could  make  them  powerful,  masters  of 
their  yesterdays,  their  todays,  and  their  tomorrows. 
The  Baroque  has  never  pretended  to  be  a  great  art, 
but  a  shining,  useful  art.  In  the  churches  it  is  re- 
proached with  reason  for  intruding  into  sanctuaries 
set  apart  for  meditation,  but  who  can  deny  that  it  is 
altogether  at  home  in  the  palaces  designed  for  enter- 
tainments and  for  show?  The  lamentable  and  so 
often  despicable  Baroque  is,  therefore,  only  another 
confirmation  of  the  law  of  beauty  which  exists  not 
in  conformity  to  a  given  type,  but  in  harmony,  and 
not  only  a  harmony  of  the  work  in  all  its  parts,  but 
of  the  work  with  the  ideas  and  customs  of  its  times, 
with  society  in  the  sum  total  of  its  development. 

Having  rendered  justice  to  the  architecture,  let 
us  see  the  painting  from  the  same  equitable  angle. 
But  first,  let  us  see  what  each  palace  has  to  offer  us 
in  itself.  Many  pictures,  few  works  of  art.  Doubt- 


284  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

less,  if  one  or  two  famous  canvases  were  removed 
from  these  galleries,  they  would  be  rarely  visited, 
or  the  proprietors  would  keep  them  shut  to  the  public, 
for  the  possession  of  certain  pictures  creates  a  sort  of 
obligation  to  open  the  house  to  all  comers.  The 
Fornarina  imposes  upon  the  ambassador  of  Spain  the 
obligation  to  allow  the  gates  of  the  Barberini  to  stand 
open,  the  Fornarina  and  Guido  Reni's  Beatrice  Cenci, 
pictures  of  two  beautiful  legends  over  which  the 
world  weeps.  We  remember  having  come  upon  the 
Fornarina  in  the  Trastevere;  as  for  Beatrice,  learned 
scholars  forbid  me  to  grow  sentimental  over  this  beau- 
tiful girl  with  her  hair  done  in  Greek  style,  as  it  was 
called  in  her  day,  and  who,  for  the  moment,  at  least, 
is  not  the  victim  of  an  incestuous  father  and  who,  this 
year,  at  any  rate,  is  not  painted  by  Guido  Reni.  I 
shall  still  think  of  him,  however,  as  I  pay  this  lovely 
girl  the  homage  due  to  her  grace,  which  is  all  sweet- 
ness, and  to  her  incomparable  charm. 

Here  beside  her  is  an  incontestable  antique.  You 
must  recognize  it,  so  brilliantly  its  superiority  shines  be- 
fore your  eyes :  the  model  of  the  Suppliant  already  seen 
at  the  Vatican.  By  the  unforgettable  impression  it 
makes  upon  our  memories,  we  may  judge  of  that  re- 
ceived by  the  artists  of  the  sixteenth  century  under 
whose  eyes  these  works  came  out  of  the  ground. 
Although  I  do  not  know  how  to  hold  a  painter's  brush, 
it  seems  to  me  that  if  I  had  the  gift  to  wield  one,  I 
could  never  have  painted  the  droop  of  a  shoulder, 
whether  drapery  fell  from  it  or  not,  without  giving 
it  this  line.  Rome  is  full  of  such  lessons  furnished 


ANNIBALE'S   VIOLINS  285 

by  the  antique,  and  nothing  is  more  legitimate 
than  the  profit  gained  from  them  as  we  have 
been  taught  by  Raphael  and  Michelangelo,  the 
first  to  draw  inspiration  from  them.  An  artist 
has  only  to  vivify  the  impression  received,  to  re-express 
it  in  his  own  manner:  that  is  but  to  walk  in  the  steps 
of  the  geniuses  of  the  Renaissance  in  whom  literary 
and  artistic  antiquity  inspired  new  works,  filial,  but 
not  plagiaristic. 

At  the  Palazzo  Rospigliosi,  the  obligation  to  the 
public  is  called  the  Aurora  by  Guido  Reni.  Where  is 
the  Aurora  of  Francesco  Barbieri,  called  //  Guercino 
because  he  squinted?  It  used  to  be  seen  at  the  Villa 
Ludovisi.  It  is  still  there,  but  in  the  casino,  that  part 
of  the  villa  bought  by  the  United  States  for  its  Aca- 
demy of  Fine  Arts.  I  have  read  descriptions  of  it 
and  know  that  it  is  the  same  subject,  treated  in  the 
same  manner:  preceded  by  Hercules,  Aurora  in  her 
chariot  drawn  by  two  spirited  horses,  dissipates  the 
darkness,  disappearing  under  a  veiled  form.  Guido, 
on  the  other  hand,  has  suppressed  Night  and  his  open 
book.  Once  more  I  am  impressed  by  Guide's  superi- 
ority. Relatively,  he  is  simple,  seeking  his  effect  with 
moderation  and  in  light  and  charm  before  everything 
else.  These  he  attains  in  this  luminous  Aurora  which 
lacks  something  in  harmony, — values,  as  artists  say, — 
but  is  fine  and  full  of  grace.  Guido  Reni  was  one  of 
the  rare  painters  of  his  time  who  knew  how  to  see  the 
antique  and  keep  it  in  mind.  He  came  much  nearer 
to  Domenichino  and  the  Carracci  than  to  Lanfranchi 
whom  Francesco  Barbieri  followed  servilely.  In  his 


286  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

ease  and  restraint  without  affectation,  he  seems  to  me 
the  least  Bolognian  of  the  Bolognese.  His  religious 
works  may  give  the  lie  to  this  restraint  and  justice, 
and  abundantly,  but,  without  according  to  it  Stendhal's 
hyperbole,  we  have  proof  in  Aurora,  of  what,  with  a 
little  more  artistic  conscience  and  honesty,  Bologna 
might  have  merited  of  posterity. 

The  public  duty  of  the  Doria  Palace  is  called  Inno- 
cent X.,  by  Velasquez.  Innocent  X.  was  of  the  Pam- 
fili  who  had  the  Villa  in  the  Trastevere  and  the 
palace  in  the  Piazza  Navona.  The  Doria  inherited 
the  fortune  and  the  portrait  which  is  equal  to  the 
fortune  and  could  recuperate  it,  were  it  in  jeopardy. 
M.  Carolus  Duran,  who  loves  red,  must  have  come 
here  often  to  study  the  great  virtuosity  of  these  com- 
binations. It  is  useless  for  me  to  insist  upon  the 
greatest  of  portrait  painters,  upon  the  first  of  all  paint- 
ers who  showed  the  soul  in  the  face.  How  faithfully 
have  I  searched  this  wonderfully  painted  visage, 
bespeaking  only  the  power  which  terrifies,  the  author- 
ity which  menaces.  It  rolls  its  big  eyes,  draws  in  its 
lips,  seeming  to  lance  forth  thunder,  the  high  colour 
only  adding  to  its  inflamed  appearance.  Was  In- 
nocent X.  so  terrible?  I  am  not  able  to  take  him 
seriously,  I  am  not  afraid  of  him  because  of  an  extra- 
ordinary resemblance  I  saw  in  him  at  once  to  a  charm- 
ing man  and  true  poet  whom  one  meets  every  day  in 
Paris.  I  can  never  have  anything  but  the  feelings 
of  a  comrade  for  this  pope  because  Innocent  X.,  come 
out  of  his  frame,  is  my  confrere  Edmond  Harancourt. 

At  the  Palazzo  Colonna  there  is  little  of  special 


Innocent  XII.,  by  Velasquez,  Doria  Gallery 


Anderson 


Palazzo    Spada 


AN  NIB  ALE'S  VIOLINS  287 

interest  outside  of  the  paintings  by  Gaspard  Dughet, 
brother-in-law  of  Poussin,  in  whose  works  we  find 
the  principles  of  the  great  master,  the  laws  on  land- 
scape laid  down  by  Poussin.  I  know  that  I  am  unjust 
toward  certain  canvases,  as  I  have  just  been,  at  the 
Doria,  toward  Claude  Lorraine  and  Lotto,  at  the 
Rospigliosi  too,  but  not  towards  Domenichino  of 
whom  I  have  already  spoken  in  his  own  time,  still  less 
towards  Signorelli,  our  Poussin,  and  others  at  the 
Barberini.  At  the  Colonna  we  see  some  portraits 
that  merit  a  halt — for  the  sitters  much  more  than  for 
the  painting.  Indeed,  when  I  think  of  all  these 
galleries  together,  my  thoughts  dwell  more  on  signa- 
tures than  upon  intrinsic  value  and  much  less  on 
particular  beauty.  Any  one  who  is  not  familiar  with 
the  galleries  and  churches  of  Italy  will  do  well  to 
visit  these  four  palaces  in  Rome,  the  Villa  Borghese, 
the  palaces  of  the  Conservator!  and  the  Corsini  and 
the  Accademia  di  San  Luca.  Then,  perhaps,  he  may 
have  a  general  idea  of  painting  in  Italy.  Besides,  he 
must  study  the  churches  of  Rome  and  the  Vatican: 
Michelangelo,  Raphael,  and  Domenichino  will  suffice 
to  initiate  him  into  the  supreme  art  of  fresco.  Every 
traveller  who,  before  coming  here,  has  passed  through 
Florence,  through  Milan,  through  Venice,  will  be 
struck  by  the  inferiority,  except,  of  course,  in  certain 
pieces,  of  the  paintings  which  Rome  has  to  show 
him. 

Among  the  pictures  ordered  by  Rome  for  Rome,  I 
have  found  the  masterpieces  of  no  one  except  Domeni- 
chino, and  when  a  palace  possesses  a  celebrated  can- 


288  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

vas,  like  the  Barberini's  Fornarina  and  the  Doria's 
Innocent  X.,  it  is  here  by  the  chance  of  inheritance, 
not  by  the  choice  of  the  owner.  Titian  and  Correggio 
shine  brilliantly  in  the  Villa  Borghese,  but  Titian's 
and  Correggio's  works  at  Florence  and  at  Parma  leave 
those  in  Rome  far  behind.  The  Borghese  were  fond 
of  pictures,  but  it  is  noteworthy  how,  at  bottom, 
princely  Rome  cared  comparatively  little  for  them. 
Florence,  Venice,  Milan,  with  their  museums,  Genoa, 
with  its  palaces,  tell  us  plainly  enough  what  a  great 
noble  could  do  when  he  loved  the  arts.  The  Roman 
nobles,  with  two  or  three  exceptions  like  the  Borghese 
or  the  Ludovisi,  had  nothing  in  common  with  the 
Medici  of  Florence  or  the  Brignole  of  Genoa.  The 
Romans  bought  because  it  was  a  part  of  their  func- 
tion to  give  alms  to  artists,  or  to  decorate  their  walls, 
but  they  bought  anything,  no  matter  what,  without 
looking  at  it,  much  as  many  people  do  today,  pictures 
being  as  essential  a  matter  of  furnishing  as  glasses  for 
the  sideboard. 

To  the  Roman  prince,  painting  was  not  an  art 
to  be  enjoyed  intimately,  but  exclusively  a  decor- 
ation, a  matter  related  to  walls  which  should  add 
to  the  splendour  of  his  palace,  particularly  to  the 
kind  of  splendour  he  demanded  of  it,  bold,  striking, 
attracting  universal  attention.  The  crowd  could  not 
recognize  the  merits  of  a  Titian  or  a  Lotto,  although 
it  might  feel,  even  in  a  confused  way,  a  sense  of  the 
beauty  of  a  work,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  a  work  so 
easily  admired  as  that  was  too  independent  of  its 
proprietor  to  cast  any  glory  upon  him.  A  cardinal 


AN  NIB  ALE'S  VIOLINS. 


289 


covered  the  walls  of  the  church  to  which  he  was  en- 
titled with  frescoes.  That  appealed  to  the  people  in 
the  cardinal's  name  and  inspired  their  respect  for  so 
generous  a  man.  The  acquisition  of  a  canvas  by 


Palma  Vecchio  or  by  Botticelli  would  have  had  but 
an  intimate  glory,  consequently  inferior  satisfaction. 
The  pope's  nephew  acted  upon  the  same  principles 
as  the  cardinal,  built  his  house  and  ornamented  it  in 
the  same  manner:  everything  for  ostentation.  Ludo- 
visi,  Buoncampagni,  Farnese,  Borghese:  they  stripped 
the  Roman  ruins,  the  Thermae  of  Caracalla,  and  the 
Palatine,  not  for  the  joy  of  possessing  masterpieces, 
but  for  competition  in  prestige.  All  was  vanity, 
all  was  representation.  The  cardinal's  church  was 


2QO  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

covered  with  brilliant  frescoes  because  the  painting 
must  make  a  vivid  impression  upon  all  beholders,  for 
the  same  reason  that  his  reception  room  had  a  deco- 
rated ceiling. 

This  ideal,  artistic,  architectural,  pictorial  is  ex- 
pressed in  the  Farnese  Palace,  but  with  this  superior- 
ity over  some  others:  that  it  is  beautiful  while  ful- 
filling its  showy  purpose.  It  had  the  good  fortune  to 
be  overtaken  by  three  great  artists,  San  Gallo  the 
Younger,  Michelangelo,  and  Annibale  Carracci  who 
saved  it  from  the  grandiose  and  other  disasters  of  bad 
taste.  In  San  Gallo's  work  certain  details  may  be 
disputed,  such  as  the  abundance  of  windows  and  their 
decoration  by  useless  columns,  little  in  harmony  with 
the  wall  masses;  in  the  court,  one  may  regret  the 
heaviness  of  the  porticoes;  but  no  one  would  fail  to 
recognize  the  general  nobility  of  the  lines  of  this  quadri- 
lateral standing  so  majestically  at  the  end  of  the 
Piazza,  between  two  fountains,  vast,  imposing  with- 
out straining  the  eye,  and  without  gew-gaws.  Surely, 
there  can  be  no  one  upon  whom  the  upper  storey  and 
the  cornice,  work  of  Michelangelo,  do  not  make  an 
impression  so  strong  as  to  suppress  all  that  does  not 
belong  to  them.  What  is  a  cornice?  Well,  this  one  is 
enough,  so  right  it  is  and  of  such  proportions,  to  turn 
a  pleasing  work  into  something  sublime.  The  frescoes 
of  Carracci  are  not  sublime.  They  are  not  asked  to 
be,  and  I  imagine  that  even  the  ceiling  of  the  Sistine 
would  lose  something  here.  Carracci,  on  the  con- 
trary, gained  much  there.  It  is  not  without  reason 
that  I  think  of  the  Sistine,  as  I  have  been  doing  since 


ANNIBALE'S  VIOLINS  291 

the  first  moment  I  began  looking  at  these  ceilings, 
for  Carracci  thought  of  it  long  before  me,  and  no  more 
with  a  thought  of  copying  it  than  have  I  of  drawing 
comparisons*  The  only  inspiration  that  he  demanded 
of  the  master  was  that  which  strikes  the  visitor  on  his 
first  approach:  the  general  composition.  It  is  the 
same  arrangement  as  at  the  Vatican:  an  idea  treated 
in  many  parts,  in  divers  phases,  each  of  the  phases 
having  a  centre  of  its  own.  And  there  is  the  fault, 
found  at  once,  because  I  have  just  formulated  the 
principle  of  all  literary  work.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
what  virtuosity  and  what  expansive  joy !  The  work 
has  been  criticized  for  its  false  colouring,  conventional 
attitudes,  and  that  air  of  preparation  felt  throughout. 
In  the  cold  bareness  of  a  museum  one  would  see  those 
defects,  but  under  the  two  hundred  electric  lamps 
artistically  hidden  behind  the  cornice  in  the  salons  of 
Monsieur  the  French  Ambassador,  one  sees,  on  the 
contrary,  all  the  decorative  genius  of  the  piece.  The 
silks  and  the  golds  have  need  of  abundant  light,  the 
joy  of  light  must  illumine  those  faces  and  those  shoul- 
ders. The  eyes  of  beholders  were  to  be  caressed  by 
rounds  and  nudes.  That  was  what  the  order  called 
for,  and  Annibale  Carracci  knew  how  to  fill  the  bill 
and  at  the  same  time  remain  a  worthy  artist.  Let  us 
not  be  severe  upon  him.  Like  Perugino,  he  is  pun- 
ished by  posterity.  With  Guido  Reni  and  Domeni- 
chino,  he,  and  especially  he,  maintains  the  dignity 
of  their  century.  And,  on  winter  evenings,  when 
the  French  Ambassador's  violins  sing  under  this 
vaulting,  waking  the  ravished  soul  of  his  assistant 


292  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Domenichino,  Beethoven  may  anger  him  some- 
what, but  Haydn  and  even  Haendel  will  not  leave 
the  amiable  and  pompous  Annibale  untouched  by 
their  harmonies. 


YARDS 


Twenty-second  Day 

URBAN  PLEASURES 

THe  THermee  of  Caracalla, 

tKe  Colosseum 

NDER  the  shadows  of  the  Villa  Adriana, 
at  Tibur,  I  have  seen  how  the  emperor 
rested  and  amused  himself  in  the 
cotintry.  Today  let  us  see  what  were 
the  recreations  of  the  Roman  in  town 
under  the  successors  of  Caesar.  The  time  was  then 
long  past  when  the  Forum  sufficed  for  the  public 

293 


294  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

games ;  in  three  hundred  years  five  amphitheatres  had 
been  built.  Still  more  were  the  Romans  past  the 
time,  although  it  was  more  recent,  when  the  Thermae 
of  Agrippa  met  all  the  demands  of  a  people  not  yet 
accustomed  to  complete  idleness.  Of  the  amphi- 
theatres only  the  Colosseum  remains  today.  Of  the 
thermas  we  know  how  Diocletian's  became  church 
and  museum;  those  of  Caracalla,  the  Thermae  Anto- 
ninianae  exist  in  an  important  and  unutilized  state  of 
ruin.  Bring  the  Turkish  bath  up  to  the  dimensions 
of  the  Paris  OpeVa,  add  to  it  tennis  grounds,  a  stadium, 
swimming  pool,  bowling  alley,  and  divers  other  gymnas- 
tic equipments,  a  library,  some  reception  rooms  with 
their  discreet  dependencies,  decorate  it  all  with 
masterpieces  of  Greek  art,  follow  the  voluptuous 
people  who  frequent  it  as  they  leave  it  for  the  circus 
near  by  where  they  satisfy  the  bloody  appetite  always 
engendered  by  effeminacy  and  laziness,  and  you  will 
understand  why  the  Roman  citizen  supported  the 
insolent,  savage  Emperor  Caracalla  and  permitted 
him  to  waste  the  Republican  Empire.  The  personal 
insecurity  of  the  morrow  was  largely  compensated 
for  by  so  many  convenient  institutions  and  pleas- 
ures. The  Romans  were  amused,  instructed,  cared 
for,  baited — and  nourished,  thanks  to  the  wheat 
brought  from  Africa  at  the  expense  of  the  treas- 
ury. Comfortable,  voluptuous,  and  almost  gra- 
tuitously, life  moved  between  the  baths  and  the 
circus.  Who  paid  for  it?  The  Emperor,  by  means 
of  the  imposts  laid  upon  the  provinces  and  the 
colonies,  by  means  of  pillage,  of  inheritances  willed 


URBAN  PLEASURES  295 

to  the  Emperor  more  or  less  voluntarily,  by  exactions, 
and  suicides  to  order. 

First  let  us  go  to  his  baths,  the  famous  Thermae 
of  Caracalla.  We  must  look  for  them,  not  strictly, 
perhaps,  but  practically  outside  the  city.  The  fields 
where  they  stood  are  well  within  the  limits  of  modern 
Rome,  but,  just  as  they  were  built  beyond  the  walls 
of  Servius,  so,  today,  they  and  their  surroundings 
remain  outside  the  life  of  the  new  capital.  On  the 
Appian  Way,  at  the  foot  of  the  Caelius,  among  the 
high  grass  and  gardens  peopled  only  by  columns,  in 
the  wildest  of  landscapes,  they  raise  their  formidable 
walls  which  might  easily  be  taken  for  those  of  a  dis- 
mantled citadel.  A  Frenchman  at  home  who  wishes 
to  understand  the  sensation  that  they  awaken  should 
think  of  the  mediaeval  ruins  of  Coucy,  or  those  of 
Pierrefonds  before  they  were  restored,  seeing  in  his 
imagination  bricks  instead  of  stone.  The  surfaces 
gape  with  great  ugly,  shapeless  holes,  parts  torn  away, 
pitfalls :  the  debris  of  a  skeleton  long  since  stripped  of 
its  flesh.  The  traveller  who  comes  here  should  be 
well  supplied  with  the  best  of  intellectual  goodwill. 
He  will  require  the  imagination  of  either  an  artist, 
an  historian,  a  scholar,  or  a  psychologist,  for  he  will 
have  need  of  the  creative  faculty.  These  walls  can 
no  more  be  described  than  those  of  Hadrian's  Villa 
or  the  Palatine.  We  cannot  analyse  that  which  has 
a  value  only  in  the  mass.  He  who  already  knows 
something  with  which  to  rebuild  this  ruin  in  his  own 
mind,  even  if  he  can  but  recall  the  columns  of  Santa 
Maria  degli  Angeli,  and  how  Michelangelo  put  that 


296  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

church  into  the  Baths  of  Diocletian,  will  find  help  in 
seeing  these  Thermae  somewhat  as  they  were  and  in 
filling  their  immensities  with  people — such  as  he  has 
seen  perhaps  upon  old  engravings  of  Saint  Peter's  or 
Saint  Sophia,  little  maggots  out  of  a  bag  of  grain. 
The  archaeologist  will  curve  the  vaultings  and  decide 
upon  the  coffer  ceilings.  The  simple  tourist,  however, 
will  not  be  the  less  impressed.  He  will  say  to  himself, 
how  grand  it  was  in  conception  and  how  colossal  in 
realization !  The  poor  outline,  he  will  exclaim,  where 
nothing  can  be  seen  now  of  all  that  used  to  be!  On 
the  Palatine  some  artistic  remains  still  exist.  Here 
there  is  nothing.  It  is  more  difficult  for  me  to  picture 
the  Thermae  of  Caracalla  here  than  when  I  am  seated 
on  the  Belvedere  or  in  certain  other  halls  of  the  Vatican, 
but  especially  in  the  Atrium  Rotundum,  for  instance, 
with  the  statues  in  their  niches.  Yet,  to  a  thoughtful 
visitor,  the  immediate  and  direct  impression  here 
yields  a  fertile  harvest.  The  whole  is  so  clear  cut, 
the  carcass  so  majestic,  that  even  the  man  without  the 
reconstructive  faculty  is  conquered.  All  the  elements 
of  the  great  Thermae  being  absent,  the  character  of  the 
ruins  is  but  in  the  line  and  extent  of  incomparable 
strength  and  majesty.  This  architecture  of  the 
giants  is  so  thick,  formidable,  immense,  so  altogether 
overpowering,  it  cannot  fail  to  awaken  our  noblest 
emotions. 

What  lessons  may  be  drawn  from  them,  dry  as  they 
are!  All  Rome  is  in  this  colossus  raised  for  a  people 
mad  over  an  out-of-door,  a  highly  socialized,  sensuous 
life,  and  who  expected  everything  of  him  to  whom  they 


URBAN  PLEASURES  297 

had  confided  their  fate:  worldly  power,  riches,  and 
pleasures.  They  wanted  a  master,  but  one  who 
could  satisfy  all  their  passions.  In  Caracalla  they 
had  a  master  who  knew  how  to  serve  his  own  interests 
in  making  them  wonder  at  him,  and  in  pleasing  them 
by  flattery  and  in  augmenting  their  passions  while 
he  gratified  the  lightest  desire  of  individual  or  mass. 
Compare  these  Baths  with  the  monuments  of  the 
Forum,  that  last  expression  of  the  independent  and 
personal  Roman  life,  impregnated  by  the  sentiment 
of  liberty  as  it  was  understood  by  Antiquity :  partici- 
pation in  the  government  of  the  city.  It  was  the 
Greek  conception  expressed  in  Rome  exactly  as  in 
Greece,  by  simple  buildings,  accessible,  restrained, 
straight  porticoes  and  ceilings.  It  is  a  striking  fact 
that  the  thermae  of  Rome  were  born  with  the  Empire, 
the  first  having  been  built  by  Agrippa.  Caesar  con- 
tented himself  with  a  basilica,  still,  in  his  time,  the 
expression  of  the  communal  life  of  political  liberty. 
As  soon  as  that  was  suppressed,  Caesar's  successors 
saw  the  importance  of  giving  the  people  voluptuous 
and  lazy  tastes,  to  make  them  find  it  so  pleasant  to 
bathe,  to  be  perfumed,  and  to  play  with  the  disks 
that  they  no  longer  thought  of  anything  else.  The 
more  the  citizen's  initiative  is  suppressed,  the  more  he 
must  be  distracted  and  persuaded  of  his  greatness 
without  allowing  him  to  compete  for  his  own  develop- 
ment of  greatness.  The  emperors  struggled  for  the 
gigantesque.  Who  could  produce  the  most  enormous 
work?  The  more  tyrannical  and  odious  the  emperor 
was  going  to  be,  the  higher  and  broader  he  built 


298  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

hygienic  vaults.  He  cast  his  spell  of  illusion,  he  put 
his  subjects  to  sleep,  he  deceived  as  much  as  he  could. 
The  citizen  lived  in  pleasure  and  magnificence,  the 
things  to  which  man  most  quickly  accustoms  himself. 
He  laughed  at  those  who  would  persuade  him  of 
poverty  and  fall.  Happy  and  rich,  he  could  not  be- 
lieve that  his  agreeable  life  would  end;  or  he  grew 
cynical,  persuading  himself  that  if  the  end  must  come, 
sometime,  so  much  the  worse — or,  so  much  the  better ! 
In  the  meantime  he  lived  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  doing 
nothing,  his  senses  satisfied,  his  muscles  supple,  his 
body  perfumed;  he  recited  pretty  verses,  while  such 
statues  as  the  Hercules,  the  Torso,  the  Laocoon,  the 
Venus  Callipygus  filled  his  mind  with  perfect  plastic 
beauty.  It  was  the  realization  of  a  dream:  to  enjoy 
everything  without  trouble  and  without  care. 

To  this  first  lesson,  entirely  social,  is  added  another, 
aesthetic.  Is  it  not,  indeed,  remarkable  that  the  arch 
did  not  appear  until  this  time?  The  round  arch  is 
Etruscan,  no  doubt,  and  it  is  commonly  thought  that 
the  Etruscans  had  it  from  the  Greeks,  and  that  being 
true,  even  to  this  detail,  Roman  architecture  was  still 
Greek.  The  Romans  would  have  it  entirely  Roman, 
but  the  fact  is  that  the  Roman  arch  was  never  em- 
ployed in  what  may  be  called  buildings  de  luxe  until 
the  time  of  the  Empire.  When  it  was  adopted,  colon- 
nades and  entablatures  were  passing  to  the  second 
rank  as  mere  decoration.  The  arch  dominated  at 
once  with  the  vaulting,  because  it  provided  the 
means  of  covering  spaces  impossible  to  shelter  under 
the  flat  ceiling.  The  more  people  there  are  doing 


Anderson 


The  Baths  of  Caracalla 


Anderson 


Interior  of  the  Colosseum 


URBAN  PLEASURES  299 

nothing,  the  more  necessary  to  increase  the  spaces 
where  they  can  trifle  time  away.  The  vaulted  arch 
acquired,  the  next  question  was  to  treat  its  curved 
lines,  which  Rome  did  with  particular  and  unique 
freedom.  They  rise  and  lance  themselves  forth  from 
thick  walls  without  artifice.  The  vaulting  rests 
upon  each  plan,  dissimulating  nothing  of  its  weight — 
not  to  say  heaviness.  It  sprang  out  of  the  partitions 
tired  of  standing  face  to  face  and  longing  to  meet. 
The  columns  of  Michelangelo  preserved  in  the 
church  of  Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli  have  never  hidden 
any  of  this  effort.  They  ornament,  but  carry  nothing. 
Do  not  think  that  the  builders  were  ignorant  of  means. 
Those  who  rounded  these  bricks  were  capable  of 
other  boldnesses,  and  were  ignorant  of  nothing  in  the 
art  of  building,  witness  the  Pantheon,  in  which  for 
me  Roman  architecture  is  distinguished  from  that  of 
the  Greeks  and  their  followers.  The  domes  of  Bru- 
nelleschi,  of  Bramante  are  admirable;  but  they  are 
quite  another  thing.  They  rise  from  independent 
pillars.  They  are  full  of  clever  devices,  like  drums, 
like  the  double  vault  which  assures  solidity.  The 
Gothic  vaulting  rests  upon  columns,  and  their  arrises, 
which  cut  one  another  in  two,  form  two  curves  which, 
lanced  upward  to  describe  their  parabola,  meet  like 
the  rockets  of  fireworks  and  fall  back.  The  Roman 
vaultings  make  no  effort,  strive  after  no  illusion,  express 
their  raison  d'etre,  even  if  baldly.  See  them  in  the 
Forum,  in  the  Basilica  of  Constantine  and  you  will 
understand  all  their  merit,  hear  all  their  eloquence. 
They  are  properly  the  unity  of  the  monument.  Have 


300  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

it,  if  you  want  to,  that  the  Roman  had  little  imagina- 
tion; that,  although  he  invented  law,  he  did  not  invent 
either  philosophy,  poetry,  or  art.  He  was  not  given 
to  dreaming  or  to  creating.  But  he  had  a  wonderful 
understanding  of  how  to  develop,  to  make  fruitful 
any  idea  for  which  his  enthusiasm  was  aroused.  And 
what  an  intrepid  heart  he  had  to  go  down  into  the 
dust  of  time  to  look  for  the  arch  and  then  to  raise  it 
to  such  heights  as  he  did!  It  was  characteristic  of 
Rome,  by  reason  of  her  weakness,  if  you  insist  on  it, 
or,  as  I  think,  because  of  her  good,  hard,  practical 
common  sense  that  she  did  not  think  of  things  other 
than  as  they  were  and  must  be.  The  Roman  vaulting 
gave  to  the  world  a  great  lesson  in  veritable  freedom 
of  expression,  by  which  Palladio  was  to  profit.  Any 
one  is  also  at  liberty  to  see  in  it  a  symbol  of  the  Roman 
majesty,  of  the  weight  that  Rome  laid  upon  the  shoul- 
ders of  those  who  sustained  her,  even  to  read  in  its 
ruin  the  fragile  destiny  of  the  monstrous  Empire. 
Here,  in  the  field  strewn  by  the  ruins  of  Caracalla's 
Thermae,  we  are  all  free  to  dream  indefinitely  over 
whatever  our  poetic  instinct  or  acquired  knowledge 
suggests.  We  may  pass  moments  or  weeks  here. 
We  might  come  back  a  hundred  times  and  always 
find  as  much  pleasure  as  in  the  first  visit.  Either  to 
people  or  to  restore  it,  the  field  is  vast,  immeasurable; 
all  the  ghosts  might  appear,  all  the  marbles  shine 
under  all  the  forms  that  chisel  gave  them.  Historian 
or  artist,  psychologist  or  sociologist,  any  thinking, 
observing  tourist  must  find  pasture  here.  Perrichon 
himself  would  come  upon  his  mer  de  glace.  It  is  a 


URBAN  PLEASURES  301 

matter  of  individual  taste.  One  who  loiters  among 
these  ruins  may  prefer  to  restore  to  their  niches  here 
the  statues  of  the  Vatican,  the  Capitol,  and  of  Naples; 
another  may  like  to  fancy  himself  swimming  about 
the  tank,  while  there  are  some  who  would  read  Virgil 
and  Plato  and  let  their  friends  have  themselves  rubbed 
with  perfumed  oils  before  going  to  the  upper  storeys. 
The  same  reveries  accompany  every  visitor  to  the 
Colosseum,  not,  however,  the  same  tastes.  The  lives 
of  the  martyrs,  instilled  into  us  by  our  Christian 
education  have  familiarized  us  with  the  spectacles 
of  the  Roman  circus.  We  have  no  need  of  a  guide 
to  show  us  the  place.  However  incapable  of  calling 
upon  the  visions  of  the  imagination  he  may  be,  no 
one  can  sit  on  these  steps  without  beginning  at  once 
to  try  to  see  the  place  as  it  was  of  old.  The  circus 
responded  to  the  same  social  necessity  as  the  Thermae, 
and  to  all  tastes  the  harvest  of  reflection  is  abundant. 
But  as  I  spread  out  my  sheaves  I  see  that  I  have 
gleaned  little,  because,  in  the  first  place,  I  cannot 
honestly  take  the  harvest  of  others.  The  Colosseum 
has  furnished  the  most  varied  and  ingenious  literature. 
Lovers  have  felt  themselves  un watched;  Chateau- 
briand came  here  to  pass  the  night  with  the  dying 
Pauline,  when  love  and  art  were  indeed  united  in  the 
Colosseum.  The  guide-books  are  full  of  the  most 
minute  indications  which  one  must  be  careful  not  to 
paraphrase.  The  measurements,  the  number  of  the 
spectators,  the  underground  structure  and  the  arena; 
all  those  statements  the  visitor  should  read  with  pre- 
cision, and  remember  as  the  unrivalled  eloquence  of 


302  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

figures.  For  me  to  repeat  them  would  be  but  tire- 
some. May  I,  at  least,  verify  the  ruins  and  deduct 
the  reason  why  ?  It  is  also  well  known  how  the  Ren- 
aissance drew  from  them  by  the  cart-load  for  its 
palaces:  the  Venezia,  the  Cancelleria,  the  Farnese, 
and  still  others.  The  Colosseum  has  been  an  inex- 
haustible quarry.  The  traveller  must  judge  by  what 
remains  of  what  there  was — and  of  what  there  could 
not  possibly  have  been.  As  to  that  which  concerns 
architecture  properly  so  called,  I  can  speak  of  nothing 
not  found  elsewhere.  This  Colosseum  I  have  al- 
ready seen  at  Verona,  at  Aries,  too,  and  at  Nlmes! 
Of  all  Roman  monuments,  it  is  the  most  familiar  to 
our  eyes  and  to  our  minds. 

Is  that  what  has  put  me  out  and  keeps  me  put  out 
with  it  ?  A  traveller  should  first  of  all  take  the  trouble 
to  be  sincere  with  himself;  and  if  he  has  a  weakness — 
who  has  not! — to  own  his  limp  or  his  hump.  In  spite 
of  all  my  expectations,  I  have  not  been  conquered 
by  the  Colosseum.  Stendhal  is  always  recommending 
us  to  have  the  boldness  to  admire  what  we  love  with- 
out troubling  ourselves  as  to  whether  or  not  it  is  in 
the  fashion  or  liked  by  others.  We  should  have  the 
same  intrepidity  in  not  admiring  that  which  does  not 
appeal  to  us.  I  have  passed  the  entire  morning  at 
the  Caracalla  and  there  I  made  the  whole  tour  of  the 
sublime.  I  came  to  the  Colosseum  at  midday  and 
did  not  leave  it  until  evening,  having  been  interested, 
even  captivated  by  what  I  have  seen,  but  not  for  one 
instant  exalted.  I  remember  the  impression  received 
at  Verona;  the  carnage  and  the  cry  of  the  beasts  of 


URBAN  PLEASURES  303 

the  human  and  the  lower  orders.  How  a  people  who 
have  left  us  so  much  testimony  of  their  culture  could 
take  pleasure  in  those  butcheries,  the  more  repugnant 
that  they  took  no  part  in  them,  we  cannot  conceive. 
The  Greeks  amused  themselves  differently.  I  felt 
that  at  Verona  and  turned  away  with  disgust.  At 
the  Colosseum  I  remain,  for  now  I  understand  the 
reason  of  the  carnage  of  the  people  and  the  emperors 
that  I  have  seen  at  the  Thermae  of  Caracalla.  I  can 
conceive  it,  but  I  cannot  give  myself  up  to  it.  I  am 
a  little  ashamed  of  that,  too.  In  the  Forum  I  will- 
ingly enough  felt  myself  a  Roman;  but  here  I  have 
some  reserves.  I  cannot  picture  myself  a  Roman  of 
this  Rome  represented  here.  I  cannot  admire  the 
life,  I  feel  nothing  of  the  games  of  the  circus.  Never 
having  seen  the  running  of  human  blood,  I  cannot 
say  that  it  would  revolt  me;  but  at  least  I  am  sure 
from  what  I  know  of  bull-fights  that  I  should  have 
yawned  at  the  Colosseum.  Ugh,  so  much  majesty, 
so  much  marble,  so  much  effort  for  something  so 
bestial,  so  gross,  so  cowardly  as  a  struggle  between 
the  human  brutes  carefully  lowered  to  the  rank  of 
the  beast  with  whom  they  were  made  to  rival !  There 
is  something  lacking  in  me,  perhaps.  I  may  be  the 
weakling  I  was  speaking  of  just  now.  Whatever  the 
reason,  I  cannot  key  myself  up  to  the  diapason  that 
harmonizes  with  those  beings,  and  without  harmony 
all  admiration  is  difficult,  if  not  impossible.  At  the 
Thermae  of  Caracalla,  it  was  easy  for  me  to  imagine 
the  pleasures  offered  there.  We  go  to  baths  in  our 
own  day,  but  to  the  Colosseum  once,  perhaps,  as  to  a 


304  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

bull-fight;  never  wanting  to  go  again.  From  the 
moment  we  realize  what  those  pleasures  were,  it  has 
no  beauty  for  us,  only  the  ugliness  of  its  use,  and  dis- 
associated from  its  use,  what  beauty  can  it  have?  I 
do  not  see. 

As  I  saw  it  without  emotion,  for  an  object  foreign 
to  the  thing  in  itself,  I  am,  no  doubt,  ill  prepared  to 
judge.  I  am  aware  that  my  judgment  is  too  warped, 
to  form  an  impartial  opinion  of  its  beauty.  At  the 
Baths  of  Caracalla  I  should  have  excused  myself  on 
that  account.  But  at  the  Colosseum  that  excuse  will 
not  do;  for  although  it  is  a  ruin,  it  has  such  large  por- 
tions still  intact,  sufficient  for  an  ideal  restoration 
and  for  me  to  see  it  without  any  ghosts.  The  side 
toward  the  Esquiline  is  as  it  used  to  be,  entire;  more- 
over one  good  tier  encircles  the  whole  building.  The 
interior  has  all  the  seats.  The  underground  structure 
which  has  been  excavated  is  magnificent  in  low 
vaulted  strength.  Nothing  is  wanting  but  the  people, 
the  essential  and  the  least  beautiful  part  of  the  pic- 
ture. Yet  none  of  it  awakens  any  strong  feeling  in 
me.  I  notice  the  slimness  of  the  columns,  the  arches, 
the  cornices,  the  solidity  of  the  steps,  the  vaultings, 
and  the  amplitude  of  it  all.  But  how  unsatisfying 
it  is,  with  no  thought  for  art,  no  effort  to  please  the 
mind!  Yet  how  out  of  place  such  an  effort  would 
have  been!  That  is  what  puts  me  in  the  right.  The 
Colosseum  is  a  perfect  circus,  I  need  nothing  to  make 
me  happy  but  to  admit  the  circus;  and  that  I  cannot 
do.  As  at  the  Thermae,  let  us  sit  on  these  seats,  call- 
ing to  mind  the  people  and  the  times.  Our  Latin  and 


URBAN  PLEASURES  305 

Christian  education  has  never  before  seemed  to  be 
such  a  beautiful  recompense  for  our  loss  of  the  antique. 
We  can  make  our  little  Montesquieu  at  our  leisure 
and  indefinitely;  it  is  the  lowest  and  most  futile  of 
diversions.  But,  under  these  vociferating  and  bleed- 
ing arches,  I  could  never  open  my  veins.  I  can  reflect, 
understand,  deduct  beautiful  lessons,  and  philosophize 
abundantly;  I  could  never  feel. 


Xwenty-tHird  Day 

RESURRECTIONS 

THe  Cseliias,  tKe  .Aventine 

HE  walk  we  take  today  is  silent  and 
solitary.  From  the  Lateran  to  the 
Tiber,  going  up  and  down  the  Caslius 
and  the  Aventine,  far  from  the  mod- 
ern tumult,  away  from  roads  ordinar- 
ily and  necessarily  used  by  tourists,  we  shall  stroll 

306 


RESURRECTIONS  307 


among  gardens,  under  oaks,  along  streets  bordered 
with  walls  without  houses,  looking  for  small  things 
which  are  not  celebrated,  nevertheless  glorious.  It 
seems  strange  that  new  Rome  still  leaves  almost 
deserted  these  hills  which  were  the  delight  of  the 
ancients — who  did  not  know  how  unhealthy  they 
were.  Their  insalubrity  must  be  growing  less  now, 
however,  since  the  Government  gives  its  military 
invalids  the  air  of  the  Cselius  to  breathe.  In  the  time 
of  Romulus  the  Caelius  was  called  the  Querquetulanus, 
the  oak-grove  we  would  say.  It  was  thickly  popu- 
lated up  to  the  end  of  the  eleventh  century,  until 
Robert  Guiscard  came  to  ravage  it.  Ancient  Rome 
lodged  her  legions  there,  and  there  Christian  Rome 
found  her  surest  and  most  fortunate  proselytes.  Why 
has  it  never  been  redeemed  from  the  Norman  ruin? 
It  seems  to  me  that  of  all  the  Roman  villas  the  Celi- 
montana,  certainly  the  most  shaded  of  them  all,  must 
be  the  pleasantest  to  live  in.  It  is  lost  in  the  midst 
of  vacant  land  and  the  great  walls  of  asylums  and 
other  public  institutions  which  give  to  this  part  of 
Rome  the  appearance  of  a  conventual  city. 

Only  in  Rome  are  such  sad  quarters  as  this  relieved 
by  heroic  detail.  While  I  am  walking  through  the  Via 
di  San  Stefano,  shut  in  between  two  mysterious  walls 
of  piety  or  assistance,  I  suddenly  see  a  row  of  old 
brick  arcades  standing  upon  white  stone.  It  is  the 
ancient  Acqua  Claudia  which  used  to  feed  Nero's 
lake  by  flowing  into  the  shallow  land  where  the 
Colosseum  is  enthroned.  There  is  a  proud  baluster 
to  rest  your  hand  upon!  Farther  on,  half-way  down 


3o8  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

the  hill  where  the  gardens  are  low-cropped  and  Tar- 
quin's  oaks  sway  their  high  branches,  the  Arch  of 
Dolabella  crosses  the  road,  and,  after  we  have  passed 
the  son  of  Agrippina,  we  are  led  on  by  the  son-in-law 
of  Cicero,  the  vanquisher  of  Thapsus. 

A  small  street  branches  off  to  the  left,  at  the  end 
of  which  is  a  porch  with  door  ajar.  It  is  San  Stefano 
Rotundo,  built,  some  say  on  the  site  of  a  marcellum, 
a  market-place,  according  to  others  upon  the  founda- 
tions of  a  temple  to  Claudius,  still  others  having 
it  the  temple  of  Jupiter  Peregrinus.  I  suspect  the 
market-place  of  having  been  invented  by  those  who 
will  not  have  it  that  a  temple  might  have  been  round. 
German  science  is  refractory  on  this  point,  the  archaeo- 
logical summaries  called  guide-books  make  us  its 
unconscious  disciples.  We  need  not  push  the  Latin 
pride  to  the  point  of  denying  this  German  marcellum, 
neither  need  we  adopt  it  blindly.  Among  these  insol- 
uble problems,  let  us  be  guided  by  sentiment ;  it  is  as 
sure  as  deductions,  which  are  always  rash.  System- 
atically annihilated,  brutalized  by  his  grandfather 
Augustus,  his  uncle  Tiberius,  and  his  nephew  Caligula, 
it  seems  to  me  that  Claudius,  the  grandson  of  Livia, 
at  this  moment  of  meeting  him,  merits  the  honour  of 
a  temple  for  his  early  goodwill,  his  sufferings  as  a 
young  man  ill-treated  by  his  own  kindred,  and  for  the 
lesson  he  teaches  old  men  too  much  smitten  with 
young  girls. 

Like  so  many  of  the  Roman  churches  that  are  too 
poor  to  keep  up  a  regular  personnel,  San  Stefano 
Rotundo  is  shut,  and  like  almost  alt  of  the  churches  of 


RESURRECTIONS  309 

this  quarter  which  has  been  entirely  absorbed  by  the 
Lateran,  it  opens  its  doors  to  the  faithful  but  once  or 
twice  a  year.  The  traveller,  however,  has  but  to 
ring;  he  will  be  rewarded  for  his  patience  in  waiting 
for  the  custodian,  for  San  Stefano  is  a  model  of  the 
neglected  art  of  round  churches.  The  baptistries  only 
have  dared  to  adopt  it  and  that  without  the  columns, 
except  at  the  Lateran,  which  is  one  of  its  charms. 
This  art  found  its  definite  expression  in  the  Byzantine; 
nothing  was  ever  to  be  better  than  San  Vitale,  at 
Ravenna,  whose  complete  formula  was  here.1  I  am 
sure  that  if  the  round  church  had  won  the  day  against 
the  cruciform  we  should  not  have  had  tears  enough  to 
weep  "over  the  loss  of  the  cruciform  church,  and  the 
rarity  of  the  round  temple  weighs  heavily  in  our  admi- 
ration of  it.  Just  the  same  it  possesses  great  charm. 
I  acknowledge  the  difficulty  in  taking  one's  point  of 
direction  in  it,  I  know  that  the  eye  can  rest  on  no 
place  but  the  altar,  I  appreciate  the  necessarily  limited 
dimensions,  inimical  to  every  form  of  spreading  out, 
but  I  see  how  its  art  is  summarized  and  hidden  at  the 
same  time,  how  the  smooth  beauty  of  its  columns 
under  a  gradually  changing  light  gives  an  air  of  aristo- 
cratic piety  to  the  entire  interior.  Constantine  and 
Galla  Placidia  loved  that  art,  and  it  is  surprising  that 
imperial  Rome  did  not  cultivate  it  more  when  she  had 
the  antique  models  of  the  temples  of  Vesta,  of  the 
Conquering  Hercules,  of  Tivoli,  and  of  the  Palatine 
Temple  today  called  the  church  of  San  Teodoro  be- 
fore her  eyes.  San  Stefano  must  have  been  magni- 
1  Little  Cities  of  Italy,  vol.  ii.,  chap.  viii. 


3io  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

ficentwhen  its  colonnade — now  unique — was  doubled. 
The  gradations  of  the  vaulting,  the  beautiful  mosaics 
on  a  white  background,  and  the  Ionic  capitals  must 
have  delighted  the  tradition-loving  and  neophyte 
Romans.  The  building  has  but  one  fault :  it  aims  too 
high.  A  wall,  supported  by  two  columns  and  two 
pilasters,  sustains  a  cupola  which  would  fall  in  if  it 
were  not  held  up. 

Opposite  San  Stefano  is  the  celebrated  and  smiling 
Navicella.  For  a  long  time  Santa  Maria  in  Dominica 
passed  for  the  work  of  Raphael.  No  one  will  have  it 
so  now.  Yet  it  does  not  seem  to  me  unworthy  of  his 
genius,  nor  would  it  be  as  a  subject  taking  the  place 
altogether;  the  portico  looking  toward  the  marble 
casement,  below  Dolabella,  the  trees  waving  their 
branches  above  the  walls  of  the  Celimontan.0.,  and  a 
silence  which  has  nothing  of  sadness,  lightly  broken  by 
the  wind  in  the  weeds,  the  rustling  of  leaves,  and  the 
singing  of  running  water.  For  once,  no  one  comes  to 
open  the  door.  Why  I  pull  in  vain  at  the  bell-wire  I 
do  not  know.  At  any  rate  I  am  rewarded  for  my 
walk  by  the  charming  decoration  of  the  portico.  Did 
Raphael  do  it  for  Leo  X., — this  poetic,  exquisite,  al- 
though perhaps  a  little  weak  Navicella?  Besides,  I 
have  come  to  this  village  of  the  Caelius  for  more 
Roman  thoughts. 

I  go  under  the  Arch  of  Dolabella  and  down  a  ca- 
lamitous road  between  high  walls,  overhung  by  the 
oaks  of  King  Ancus,  toward  the  church  of  Saint 
John  and  Saint  Paul  which  commands  a  square 
tumbling  to  pieces  with  old  re-baked  brick.  The 


RESURRECTIONS  311 

Gothic  campanile  is  perched  at  the  corner  of  the  porch 
like  a  feather  in  a  bonnet,  its  brickwork  cut  by  little 
columns  with  squares  of  porphyry  and  cornice  made 
of  antique  fragments.  It  is  embellished  in  my  eyes 
with  memories  of  the  Emilia,  of  that  art  of  architec- 
tural terra-cotta  invented  by  the  Lombards  in  the 
Middle  Ages  and  of  which  they  left  at  Rome  this 
almost  unique  testimony.  Rome  would  never  have 
dared  to  make  such  use  of  brick,  seeing  in  it  only 
material  for  the  skeletons  of  her  buildings  which  she 
dressed  in  marbles.  This  is  my  treasure-trove !  I  am 
here  to  find  the  things  that  do  not  belong  to  her,  the 
things  that  surprise,  daze  me  in  her  most  desolate 
and  least  sublime  corners.  The  old  church  is  not 
recognizable.  The  Baroque  has  climbed  even  here, 
although  disdaining  to  go  down  below  ground.  As  it 
left  San  Clemente  to  drown  in  the  mud  at  the  foot  of 
the  Esquiline,  so  it  spared  the  house  of  John  and  Paul 
buried  under  rubbish.  Rome,  in  all  the  pomp  of  the 
popes  did  not  trouble  herself  about  the  modest  origin 
of  her  splendour.  Yet,  upon  the  Caelius,  not  far  from 
the  Lateran  which  Constantine  gave  to  the  popes, 
was  the  house  where  lived  those  first  Christians,  who 
did  the  most,  perhaps,  for  the  definite  triumph  of  the 
cult.  High  functionaries  of  the  Empire,  John  and 
Paul  adored  Jupiter,  and  their  Lares  and  Penates  until 
the  light  of  God  shone  upon  them.  Their  house,  that 
of  rich  citizens,  was  transformed  into  a  pious  shelter 
which  became  sanctified  by  the  persecutions  under 
the  Emperor  Julian.  They  perished  as  martyrs,  and 
when  the  persecutions  ceased,  their  house  became 


312  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

such  an  object  of  veneration  that  a  church  was  built 
adjoining   it.     Robert    Guiscard   burnt   the   church, 
but  when  the  Normans  were  gone,  the  Romans  pulled 
down   the  blackened  walls,  levelled  the  ruins,  and 
built  another  church  with  the  new  campanile.     All  the 
while  the  patrician  mansion  had  been  preserved  under 
the  crypt.     Some  twenty-five  years  ago  it  was  cleared 
out  and  now  we  may  see,  in  the  glow  of  electric  lights, 
how  the  Romans  of  the  time  before  Christ  were  lodged. 
The  Christians  sheltered  their  new  sentiments  in  an 
old  frame.     The  house  of  John  and  Paul  is  one  of 
precious  instruction,  unique  in  Rome,  I  believe.     The 
house  of  Livia,  on  the  Palatine,  has  great  prestige  and 
is   of  touching  simplicity   beside  the  pomp  of  the 
Empire.     That  is  fragmentary,  however,  and  of  too 
great  contrast  not  to  seem  to  me  affected,  appealing 
to  me  less  than  the  house  of  the  two  converted  patri- 
cians.    This  is  made  up  of  a  series  of  seven  or  eight 
rooms,  the  atrium,  behind  it  in  the  centre,  the  tabli- 
num  which  we  would  call  the  drawing-room,  parlour, 
or  sitting-room.     On  either  side  are  divers  bedrooms 
and  the  triclinium  or  dining-room.     It  is  exactly  the 
same  arrangement  as  that  of  the  houses  on  the  Pala- 
tine, of  Hadrian's  Villa,  of  all  Roman  houses  and  of 
the  houses  at  Pompeii:  rectangular  rooms  flanking  a 
square  central  court  which  is  commanded  by  the  prin- 
cipal living  or  reception  room.     All  the  rooms  are 
vaulted  and  painted  and  the  doors  are  arched.     By 
what  miracle  has  the  bathroom  with  its  bathing  place 
and  basin  been  preserved  for  us?     By  what  miracle, 
also,  the  cellar  where  still  stand  in  rows  intact,  fixed 


Anderson 


The  Arch  of  Dolabella 


Anderson 


St.  Maria  in  Dominica 


RESURRECTIONS  313 


in  their  niches  in  the  masonry,  the  pointed  amphorae 
in  which  oil  and  wine  used  to  mellow?  Life  has  been 
taken  by  surprise  here  in  all  its  minutiae,  and  I  cannot 
examine  the  decoration  on  these  walls  without  turning 
my  head  every  minute  as  if  John  and  Paul  were  com- 
ing in.  I  can  see  them  so  clearly,  moving  about  the 
house,  from  the  tablinum  to  the  triclinium,  from  the 
cellar  to  the  bathroom!  The  phases  of  their  lives 
are  written  for  me  on  the  walls.  In  the  triclinium  are 
some  young  gods,  entirely  nude  under  a  mantle  thrown 
back,  playing  with  garlands  upon  which  birds  are 
perched,  while  near  them  peacocks  lift  their  claws  or 
strut  about.  Those  exquisite  and  cultivated  young 
pagans,  John  and  Paul,  were  surrounded  by  flowers 
when  they  ate.  In  the  tablinum  all  is  changed.  The 
Roman  brothers  have  heard  the  great  voice  of  the 
Lateran.  Upon  these  walls  are  spread  out  the  mystic 
symbols  and  exultant  texts.  The  Eucharist  is  repre- 
sented by  a  vase  full  of  milk  at  which  two  lambs  are 
drinking.  A  praying  woman  with  open  arms  means 
the  Mother  Church.  In  all  the  bedrooms,  the  new 
religion  is  proclaimed,  secure  in  the  faith  of  Constan- 
tine;  even  the  scenes  of  martyrdom  are  fearlessly 
represented  in  serene  unconsciousness  that  they  were 
going  to  be  repeated  even  upon  the  masters  of  this 
house  by  Julian.  Three  lives  are  enclosed  within 
these  walls,  one  material,  two  ideal,  and  the  two  ideal 
lives  as  different  from  each  other  as  from  the  material 
life.  The  house  of  John  and  Paul  is  material  for  the 
history  of  the  heart  as  for  the  history  of  the  human 
body.  In  it  we  come  upon  the  Roman  citizen  in  his 


3H  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

actions  and  in  his  thoughts.  Witness  of  the  transition 
between  the  pagan  and  the  Christian  ages,  it  illumin- 
ates the  two  epochs  of  the  Roman  soul  at  the  same 
time  that  it  makes  us  live  an  instant  of  the  life  that 
Cicero,  Horace,  and  Seneca  must  have  lived  in 
modest  little  houses  like  this,  arranged,  decorated, 
mounted  in  much  the  same  way,  furnished  with  hot 
and  cold  water  and  all  the  conveniences  up  to  date. 

After  a  halt  in  the  shade  of  the  Piazza  San  Gregorio, 
— where  again   I  saw  the  brilliant   Domenichino   I 
hunted  up  ten  days  ago, — I  have  found  the  climb  up 
the  Aventine  rough,  dusty,  and  hot.     The  Romans 
respected  this  hill  to  the  point  of  leaving  it  outside  of 
their  pomcerium,  because,  they  said,  it  held  the  tombs 
of  Aventinus  and  of  Remus.     Will  modern   Rome 
always  respect  it?     Now,  at  any  rate,  she  neglects 
it  even  more  than  the  Caslius.     Today  the  Romans 
are  attracted  towards  it  only  by  the  Castello  del 
Costantino,  the  restaurant  which  stretches  its  ter- 
races opposite  the  Palatine,  and  whose  guests  find 
in  those  magnificent  ruins  a  garnish  that  gives  taste 
to  every  dish.     I  notice  the  grave  joy  that  fills  the 
eyes  of  the  crowd  which  surges  up  here  on  Sundays 
and  seems  spellbound  by  the  celebrated  mountain, 
feeling  its  beauty  and  not  altogether  ignorant  of  its 
history.     How  many  glorious  stages  has  the  Aventine 
marked  in  the  history  of  Rome!     Tomb  of  the  first 
kings,  refuge  of  the  people  struggling  for  their  liberties, 
the  place  assigned  at  length  to  the  statue  of  Juno 
taken  from  Veii!     All  Roman  history  is  written  here: 
the  foundation  of  the  city,  the  submission  of  the  rivals, 


RESURRECTIONS  315 

and  the  establishment  of  popular  rights.  After  going 
over  the  Aventine,  one  understands  why  the  people 
chose  it  as  a  retreat  and  a  defiance  against  their  ene- 
mies. It  was  an  inexpugnable  refuge  with  the  widest 
of  all  the  views  over  this  sublime  landscape.  From 
the  height  of  that  summit  dominated  today  by  the 
hospitable  Castello,  not  a  movement  was  lost  among 
the  noble  inhabitants  of  the  Palatine,  those  who  occu- 
pied the  sides  of  the  hill  before  the  time  of  the  empe- 
rors. On  the  right  the  Campagna  revealed  all  the 
cohorts  gathered  there,  as  far  as  the  Sabine  Mountains. 
To  the  left  rolled  the  yellow  flood  of  the  Tiber,  and 
neither  the  hill  of  the  Janiculum  nor  that  of  the  Vatican 
could  hide  anything  in  their  crevices.  The  Aventine 
today,  as  of  old,  may  be  a  desert,  but  it  is  full  of 
interest. 

On  the  ruins,  or,  no  doubt,  within  the  walls  of  Juno's 
temple,  a  church  has  been  placed:  Santa  Sabina.  On 
this  protective  and  defensive  mountain  and  in  this 
dwelling  of  the  clairvoyant  goddess,  Saint  Dominic 
felt  himself  called  to  unite  around  him  the  brothers 
whom  he  named  the  dogs  of  God — Domini  canes  !  It 
was  from  here  that  those  enraged  and  too  often  san- 
guinary defenders  of  the  faith,  went  forth  in  their 
enmity  against  hypocritic  servitors  of  Jesus.  For 
their  sakes  Santa  Sabina  should  remain  intact,  this 
Christian  basilica  of  the  early  days,  keeping  the  pagan 
form  of  the  temple  it  replaced.  It  is,  perhaps,  the 
purest  basilica  of  Rome,  the  least  "embellished"  by 
the  disrespectful  ages.  One  day,  when,  at  the  house 
of  a  friend,  I  was  admiring  some  homely  old  family 


316  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

furniture,  my  friend  said:  "I  was  fortunate  enough  to 
have  ancestors  who  had  no  '  taste. '  '  The  ancestors 
of  modern  Rome  had  too  much  "taste"  in  their  day, 
what  Goethe  called  the  tie  of  a  cravat  in  intellectual 
matters,  the  fashion  in  art  to  which  we  owe  the  Baroque 
churches  that  have  disfigured  Rome.  But  the 
Baroque-mad  gentry  did  not  climb  up  to  the  high 
Aventine;  they  left  Santa  Sabina  the  pure  model  of  a 
basilica:  columns  carrying  the  solid  wall,  ceiling  with 
the  beams  in  sight,  narrow  apse  in  the  form  of  the 
triumphal  arch.  Are  the  columns  those  of  the  temple 
of  Juno  ?  Their  Corinthian  order  makes  it  impossible 
to  think  so.  Just  as  if  I  had  never  said  so  before,  I 
feel  like  stating  again  my  liking  for  the  basilica.  I 
especially  like  to  accord  to  the  pagan  basilica  the  in- 
spiration that  a  new  theory  denies  it.  For  some  time 
there  has  been  a  disposition  to  make  the  primitive 
church  grow,  not  out  of  the  pagan  monuments,  but 
out  of  Christian  houses,  out  of  the  house  of  John  and 
Paul  which  I  saw  this  morning.  The  nave  would  be 
the  atrium,  covered ;  the  apse,  the  tablinum  where  the 
altar  of  the  true  God  must  have  displaced  the  Lares 
and  Penates ;  the  aisles  would  have  been  made  of  the 
portico  of  the  atrium;  and  the  transepts,  of  the  wings 
of  the  atrium,  that  is  of  the  sleeping-rooms,  their  par- 
titions thrown  down. 

Before  the  cult  was  recognized,  the  Christians  used 
to  gather  for  worship  at  the  houses  of  their  most  pros- 
perous brothers,  and,  after  the  Edict  of  Milan,  they 
may  have  modelled  their  churches  on  the  plan  of  those 
houses.  But  this  does  not  seem  possible  when  one 


RESURRECTIONS  317 


sees  a  Santa  Sabina  so  like  the  basilica  given  us  by  the 
excavations  in  the  Forum,  in  the  many  forums,  nor 
does  it  seem  likely  to  one  who  knows  the  heart  of  men 
and  the  slow  social  progress ;  the  inevitable  conclusion 
is  the  simplest,  the  most  economic,  and  that  which 
clashes  least  with  the  customs  of  the  time.  How  many 
humble  neophytes  went  to  the  temple  to  adore  the 
God  who,  they  were  told,  could  help  them,  without 
really  caring  who  He  was,  Jupiter  or  Jesus,  if  only  He 
could  comfort  them!  The  old  temple  and  the  old 
basilica,  in  which  the  people  had  been  accustomed  to 
gather,  lent  themselves  to  the  gentle  evangelical  pene- 
tration, aiding  in  the  duties  imposed  upon  the  new 
priests.  The  struggle  for  the  Altar  of  Victory  shows 
the  care  that  was  taken  to  keep  old  established  places. 
The  effort  it  would  have  cost  the  architects  of  those 
early  centuries  to  transform  the  house  of  John  and 
Paul  into  one  of  these  vast  enclosures  seems  to  me 
beyond  the  intellectual  and  material  resources  of  that 
time  of  poverty  when  art  was  obscured  by  the  darkness 
of  night. 

This  little  problem  involving  archaeology  and  psy- 
chology came  to  me  for  solution  in  the  gardens  of  the 
Villa  Malta.  Perched  above  the  Tiber,  as  upon  the 
crest  of  a  wall,  at  the  very  turning  where  the  rock  of 
the  Aventine  deflects  the  course  of  the  river,  the  Villa 
Malta  holds  close  around  its  narrow  defences  a  still 
narrower  garden.  It  is  a  charming  bit  of  floral  archi- 
tecture, hanging  in  two  or  three  terraces  upon  the 
flank  of  the  rock  which  dominates  the  muddy  stream, 
the  violent  Trastevere  and  the  noble  hills.  The  situ- 


318  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

ation  is  not  by  any  means  the  most  beautiful  in  Rome, 
but  one  of  the  most  expressive.  Seated  before  this 
full  landscape  where  the  vigorous  elements  of  Rome 
are  concentrated,  I  should  have  liked  to  dream  of  the 
first  ages  of  the  Christians  and  their  refuges  for  wor- 
ship, houses  or  basilicas.  A  stone  seat  in  a  grove 
invited  me  to  this  meditation.  Alas,  at  the  end  of 
three  minutes  someone  came  to  drive  me  away.  I 
was  told  that  when  the  German  finds  himself  before 
a  landscape  that  pleases  him,  he  feels  his  soul  grow 
wings,  he  becomes  poetic  and  expresses  his  sentiments 
to  his  companion  by  putting  his  arm  around  her.  So 
many  of  that  type  have  been  here  that  it  is  now  for- 
bidden us  all  merely  to  sit  down  in  the  gardens  of  the 
Villa  Malta.  So,  with  other  food  for  meditation,  I 
bid  my  tired  feet  carry  me  down  the  Aventine  and 
along  the  Tiber  until  I  gained  that  other  basilica  so 
many  times  rebuilt  and  altered,  popularly  called  the 
Bocca  delta  Veritd,  the  Mouth  of  Truth.  This  mouth 
has  been  shut  for  a  long  time.  As  in  the  case  of  the 
macellum  of  San  Stefano  Rotundo,  let  us  have  no  fear 
of  proud  names  for  our  sentiments.  Let  us  be  modest 
and  affirmative,  modest  in  our  judgments,  deliberate 
and  affirmative  in  the  expression  of  the  hour.  If  we 
wish  a  truth  at  any  price,  let  us  never  go  to  look  for 
it  farther  than  in  the  simplest  and  least  absurd  of  the 
probabilities. 


Twenty-foxirtH  Day 

TEULUS  MAGNA  VIRUM 

THe  Appian  "Way 

HE  other  day,  when  I  was  sitting  on  the 
steps  of  the  Colosseum,  I  regretted 
that  the  complaisant  literature  of  the 
world  had  so  over-embellished  certain 
places  whose  grandeur  I  could  not 
feel,  or  at  least  the  grandeur  attributed  to  them. 
Most  decidedly  I  do  not  want  to  overload  the  vetturino 

319 


320  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

who  brings  me  out  here  on  the  Appian  Way  with  any 
such  baggage.  Especially  am  I  extremely  afraid  of 
the  twenty  pages  of  Chateaubriand's  letter  to  Fon- 
tanes.  Although  read  and  re-read  a  hundred  times, 
not  only  are  they  too  heavy  for  my  cavalla, — a  light 
animal,  quite  in  keeping  with  my  study  of  Rome, — 
but  they  carry  with  them  the  innumerable  family  to 
which  they  have  given  life  and  an  accumulation  of 
balderdash  besides.  Since  1803,  when  Chateaubriand 
had  this  new  vision  of  the  Roman  Campagna  and  was 
moved  as  no  one  else  had  ever  been  known  to  be 
by  the  melancholy  suggestions  of  this  landscape,  not 
even  Corinne  has  been  able  to  or  has  dared  to  see  the 
Appian  Way  in  any  other  light.  Before  his  day, 
Chateaubriand  notes  with  some  vanity  in  his  Memoirs, 
all  the  world  looked  upon  the  Roman  fields  with  the 
eye  of  Montaigne,  the  dry  and  practical  eye  of  an 
engineer  or  a  farmer.  I,  too,  going  to  Frascati,  first 
saw  them  with  such  an  eye  and  the  first  literary  recol- 
lection that  came  to  me  was  that  of  the  Perigordian 
nobleman.  Who  will  win  today?  I  trust  it  may  be 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  Not  that  I  flatter 
myself  that  I  shall  create  a  new  point  of  view,  first 
because  I  believe  that  there  are  but  the  two  to  take: 
that  of  proprietor  or  poet.  But  I  want  to  look  at  it 
alone  and  with  sincerity.  In  going  to  Frascati,  to 
Tivoli,  to  the  Tre  Fontane,  to  the  Villa  Pamfili  and 
to  Grotta  Ferrata  and  upon  the  heights  of  the  Palatine 
and  the  Aventine,  I  have  been  able  to  ask  some  ques- 
tions of  this  Campagna,  looking  across  it  as  I  have 
done  with  an  interest  foreign  to  it,  in  a  way  favourable 


TELLUS  MAGNA   VIRUM  321 

to  an  impartial  and  independent  impression.  The 
Appian  Way  is  now  going  to  show  me  this  Campagna 
merely  in  its  last  aspect  which  is  lacking  to  my  sheaf 
of  impressions.  After  considering  it  in  all  its  other 
aspects,  it  would  be  unjust  to  leave  out  of  considera- 
tion its  decorations,  that  is,  its  ruins.  The  tombs  and 
the  aqueducts  count  for  as  much  in  its  appearance  as 
its  herbage,  its  grass,  weeds,  and  wild  flowers.  A  land- 
scape is  inseparable  from  its  buildings;  it  would  be 
unfair  to  eliminate  the  one  from  the  other.  What  is 
it  that  attracts  us  to  Rome  if  it  is  not  its  memories  as 
much  as  its  monuments?  And  if  I  had  not  sworn  to 
think  of  him  no  more,  I  have  enough  there  to  put 
Montaigne  in  the  wrong.  Perhaps  it  would  be  worth 
while,  one  day  when  we  had  time,  to  institute  proceed- 
ings against  that  good  man,  usually  so  sensitive,  so 
dry,  however,  here.  His  manner  of  seeing  Italy  is 
really  terrifying.  But  let  us  leave  him  and  the  others 
to  rest  in  peace  in  her  dear  memory,  and  look  at  her 
ourselves.  If  my  impressions  resemble  those  of  any 
one  else,  I  shall  be  sure,  at  least,  of  having  taken  care 
not  to  have  them  do  so  on  purpose. 

On  going  out  of  the  Porta  San  Sebastiano,  the  road 
follows  the  route  already  begun  in  the  city,  between 
two  walls  cut,  from  time  to  time,  by  gates  rarely 
opened  upon  the  vineyards,  behind  them,  by  poor 
churches  or  by  heaps  of  stone  to  which  it  is  difficult 
to  still  give  the  name  of  houses.  The  pavement  is 
hard,  and  abounding  in  calamitous  humps  and  hollows. 
It  is  the  road  of  an  abandoned  suburb.  Rome  is  no 
longer  entered  from  this  side,  the  road  being  too  nar- 


322  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

row  for  modern  use.  It  cannot  be  widened  without 
damage  to  the  tombs,  and  gradually  it  has  become 
frequented  only  by  tourists.  On  the  right  there  is  a 
door  which  opens  upon  some  large  gardens  covering 
the  Catacombs  of  Saint  Calixtus.  It  is  supposed  that 
the  first  Christians  gathered  in  the  shadows  of  these 
subterranean  rocks  to  worship  and  to  listen  to  the 
Divine  Word,  but  if  any  considerable  member  of  them 
took  refuge  here  in  the  time  of  the  persecutions,  surely 
they  never  got  down  these  twenty  steps,  candle  in  hand. 
These  Catacombs  are  nothing  but  winding  passages; 
one  barks  one's  elbows  with  the  slightest  movement, 
and  cannot  see  ten  steps  ahead,  not  because  the  guide 
has  snuffed  his  candle,  but  because  he  has  made 
another  turn.  So,  the  Catacombs  are  visited  in  Indian 
file  and  without  seeing  where  one  is  going.  There  is 
no  room,  no  free  space  except  before  two  or  three  im- 
portant tombs,  such  as  the  Papal  Chamber,  where 
twenty  persons  would  be  crowded.  The  Catacombs 
were  only  cemeteries ;  it  was  here  that  their  dead  were 
brought  by  the  Christians  whose  religion  forbade 
cremation.  The  walls  of  the  rock  were  dug  out  in 
rectangular  niches,  symmetrically,  one  above  another, 
and  the  body,  placed  in  the  hole,  was  shut  in  by  a 
slab  of  stone.  The  tombs  look  like  an  exaggeration 
of  the  great  files  one  sees  at  a  notary's  office.  Here 
and  there  inscription,  engraved  design,  traces  of 
painting  are  scarcely  visible;  all  purely  documentary. 
Yet,  what  is  the  strength  of  legends  and  oft-told 
tales!  Nothing  is  more  flat  and  less  rich  in  sou- 
venirs than  the  Catacombs,  but  who  would  not 


TELLUS  MAGNA   VI RUM  323 

go  to  see  them  if  only  for  the  sake  of  Fabiola  and 
Quo  Vadis  ? 

The  Appian  Way  soon  leaves  the  high  walls  behind, 
and  passing  the  insignificant  ruins  of  the  Circus  Max- 
entius  on  the  left,  mounts  to  the  tomb  of  Cecelia 
Metella,  which  stands  alone  on  the  edge  of  the  em- 
bankment. "There  is  a  real  tomb!"  I  exclaim.  It 
is  the  first  on  this  road  of  sepulchres,  and  a  feeling  of 
inexplicable  contradiction  makes  me  look  back  toward 
the  enclosure  of  the  Catacombs.  Are  not  they  also 
tombs?  By  what  detestable  pride  am  I  asking  of  these 
burial  places  here  a  display  that  those  others  humbly 
disdained?  The  Christians  laid  their  dead  under- 
ground because  the  Romans,  as  a  matter  of  religion, 
would  not  have  tolerated  their  proximity.  Why 
reproach  them  because  they  were  not  pretentious? 
Were  their  dead  the  less  virtuous  for  their  modesty? 
Let  us  wait  before  answering  until  we  have  seen  more 
of  the  Roman  tombs  that  Caecelia  Metella  seems  to 
assure  us  we  shall  find  worthy  of  the  name — 
according  to  our  ostentatious  taste.  High  upon  the 
side  of  the  road,  dominating  the  city  and  the  plain, 
looking  toward  the  mountains,  the  crenelated  tower 
where  sleeps  the  daughter-in-law  of  Crassus  seems 
placed  to  keep  watch  against  those  who  would  pro- 
fane the  dead  of  the  Appian  Way.  This  mausoleum 
passed,  I  am  in  the  presence  of  the  entire  group  of 
tombs  I  have  come  to  pass  in  review. 

Straight  on  to  the  mountains,  the  uneven  road 
runs  between  grassy  fields  strewn  with  debris  and 
bordered  with  monuments.  These,  like  all  Roman 


324  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

ruins,  show  nothing  but  their  carcasses  of  old  brick, 
rusty  like  the  weeds  and  grass  around  them.  They 
show  all  the  forms  that  piety  and  vanity  could  con- 
ceive; in  cones,  in  rectangles,  in  pyramids,  they  stand 
amid  the  meagre  pines,  in  clear  silhouettes  against  the 
blue  sky.  From  time  to  time  they  are  flanked  and 
dominated  by  a  cypress.  In  the  breeze  the  grass 
waves  upon  a  knoll  decorated  with  evergreen-oaks  and 
umbrella  pines;  it  is  a  large  tomb  which  has  become 
covered  with  earth  and  planted  with  trees.  Poor 
carcasses!  Poor  trees!  Poor  humus!  How  terribly 
dry  it  is,  how  desolately  abandoned!  Gradually, 
however,  some  details  strike  me.  In  the  midst  of  a 
score  of  fragments  caressed  by  the  grass,  the  great 
brick  skeleton  stretches  out  its  cut-short  arms,  its 
lamentable  stumps.  Another  carries  upon  itr,  breast 
its  own  treasures  which  have  been  gathered  up  and 
fixed  there:  bas-reliefs,  garlands,  little  heads,  inscrip- 
tions commemorating  unremembered  centuries.  This 
one  has  retained  its  pediment  above  some  marble 
figures.  The  cornice  of  that  one  is  surmounted  by  a 
volute.  A  third  shows  nothing  but  an  enormous 
belly.  Sometimes  a  striking  detail  stands  out.  The 
wheel  of  my  carriage  hits  a  stone,  I  look  at  it,  and  see 
a  slab  upon  which  is  extended  an  entire  body,  the 
legs  somewhat  apart,  the  arms  thrust  out  from  the 
hips;  it  is  a  man  who  sleeps  with  head  thrown  back. 
The  years  have  eaten  away  his  face  and  hands,  but 
the  trunk  and  limbs  are  intact,  left  to  lie  on  the  edge 
of  the  road,  like  an  old  shoe.  The  sunlight  playing 
upon  the  moss  attached  to  it,  gives  to  the  ancient 


Anderson 


The  Appian  Way 


Anderson 


Tombs  on  the  Appian  Way 


Anderson 


The  Tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella 


Anderson 


Aqueduct  of  Claudius,  Campagna 


TELLUS  MAGNA   VI RUM  325 

marble,  here  and  there,  the  tints  of  a  miserable  un- 
healthy life.  Around  the  body  is  the  faint  outline 
of  a  mantle  thrown  back  as  if  the  wayfarer  had  yielded 
himself  up  to  the  heavens  above  him.  He  sleeps  in- 
deed in  neglect,  innocent  in  his  nudity,  stretched  upon 
the  grass  which  grows  up  and  around  him,  casting 
over  him  shadows  as  light  as  his  naive  soul  and  lost 
memory. 

I  said  in  the  early  days  of  this  visit  that  Rome  is  a 
living  museum.  The  Appian  Way  is  a  short  museum 
of  the  Roman  soul,  'its  bald  aspect  making  it  sinister, 
its  ruined  aspects  making  it  resplendent  of  the  past 
to  which  we  owe  everything.  Is  it  not  a  beautiful, 
an  ideal  cemetery?  In  the  places  where  we  lay  our 
dead  together  we  try  to  prolong  their  life  by  memory. 
The  Via  Appia  keeps  its  tombs  doubly  shut,  without 
name  and  devastated.  Our  individual  indifference 
creates  a  general  piety  embracing  the  universe  to  which 
Rome  still  lays  down  its  laws.  Look  at  that  little  head 
springing  into  relief.  It  may  be  the  head  of  a  good 
citizen  or  a  bad  one,  of  an  honest  man  or  of  a  specu- 
lator, but  it  is  the  head  of  a  Roman,  one  who  hurried 
to  the  Forum,  who  besieged  the  Curia,  who  threw  his 
tunic  in  the  fire  where  Cassar  burned.  It  is  one  of 
those  tombs  which  gives  the  lie  to  the  inanity  of  the 
passions,  one  which  proclaims  the  beauty  and  the 
efficacy  of  the  human  virtues.  These  sepulchres 
enclose  the  world,  the  ages  born  of  Rome.  The  little, 
mean,  selfish  effort,  or  the  generous,  heroic  effort,  no 
matter  which ;  the  effort  of  all  these  dead  reaches  our 
own  life  as  full  as  was  theirs  of  the  divers  traits  of 


326  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

puerility  and  of  grandeur;  ignorant  of  the  morrow, 
too,  as  are  ours.  Who  was  this  man  who  has  been 
lying  asleep  on  this  marble  slab  for  so  many  years? 
A  nobody,  perhaps,  some  obscure  and  modest  gentle- 
man whose  children  had  for  him  the  pride  he  never 
had  in  himself.  People  smiled  at  them,  perhaps, 
when  they  saw  this  figure  of  a  man  who  had  no  great 
fame  when  he  was  living  thus  laid  out  under  the 
brilliant  sun;  but  the  sons  were  more  right  than  they 
knew;  they  may  have  thought  that  they  were  working 
only  for  their  own  day  and  generation,  but  they  were 
working  for  ages  to  come  in  which  we  were  to  halt 
where  they  had  been  and  take  from  their  vanity  a  les- 
son in  civism  and  confidence.  The  Rome  which 
sleeps  along  this  line  is  the  obscure  Rome  of  obedient 
subjects  whose  modest  and  obscure  lives  of  devotion 
to  what  they  considered  their  duty  made  the  grandeur 
of  the  Empire.  Quite  as  much  as  the  Forum,  even 
more  than  the  Palatine,  this  road  sown  with  sepulchres 
speaks  to  us  of  the  great  city.  Many  citizens  are 
buried  on  this  Appian  Way  which  was  trod  across 
the  harvest  fields  by  the  people  running  to  the  siege 
of  Alba.  This  grass  is  nourished  by  the  Roman  dust, 
not  only  from  these  few  tombs  that  I  see,  but  by  that 
of  all  those  who  marched  behind  Valerius  Corvus 
and  Furius  Camillus.  Their  collective  memory  lies 
beside  these  sepulchres.  What  was  I  doing  awhile 
ago  to  almost  abjure  the  Catacombs?  From  where 
did  those  trembling  and  mysterious  Christians  come, 
after  all?  Were  not  they  Romans,  too;  tenacious, 
heroic  Romans,  like  their  fathers?  Their  victories 


TELLUS  MAGNA   VIRUM  327 

were  other  than  those  of  their  fathers,  but  none  the 
less  destined  to  nourish  the  generations  that  followed 
them.  The  Rome  of  the  popes,  which  played  such 
a  great  part  in  the  world,  and  the  Christian  morality 
of  which  our  life  is  made  up  have,  both,  their  roots 
in  those  pigeon  holes  of  Saint  Calixtus;  the  source  of 
the  social  organization  of  the  modern  world  is  on  the 
border  of  this  road.  I  have  no  right  to  separate  these 
dead  one  from  the  other.  All  children  of  one  mother, 
they  join  hands.  Nor  should  any  pride  of  monu- 
ments make  us  forget  those  who  had  no  need  to 
display  their  heroism  in  perpetuating  it.  Each  accom- 
plished the  task  that  devolved  upon  him,  perished 
for  it  or  died  when  it  was  finished,  and  all  these  Roman 
ashes  are  mingled  in  our  hearts,  deserving  the  same 
title  to  gratitude. 

But  if  we  wish  to  understand  the  fraternal  beauty 
of  their  common  memory,  should  we  content  ourselves 
with  looking  merely  at  their  corpses?  This  Campagna 
stretching  about  me  and  them  belonged  to  all.  They 
all  have  worked  here  and  kept  up  the  duty  which 
they  transmitted  to  successive  generations.  Why  have 
these  bare  fields,  stripped  of  all  that  makes  life,  never 
been  repeopled?  In  her  earliest  times  Rome  was  an 
agricultural  village  which  is  typified  in  history  by 
Cincinnatus;  and  she  was  nourished  by  the  crops 
harvested  on  the  Campagna  before  the  days  of  the 
wheat  from  Africa  and  the  flocks  fed  upon  the  Man- 
tuan  and  Umbrian  plains.  Then  came  days  when  the 
Campagna  was  ravaged  by  enemies,  and  when,  at 
length,  she  tired  of  that,  she  demanded  of  the  Senate, 


328  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

and,  later,  of  Caesar,  the  bread  which  never  ripened. 
The  hordes  that  threw  themselves  against  Rome 
camped  upon  these  abandoned  lands.  Times  changed 
again.  Grass  grew  here  once  more  and  the  lords  of  the 
pontifical  realm  praised  the  pasturage  of  the  Cam- 
pagna;  yet  that,  too,  passed,  and  again  the  land  was  in 
danger  of  depopulation  from  the  same  causes:  devasta- 
tion, and  the  grinding  down  of  the  impoverished  farm- 
ers. In  the  time  of  the  popes ,  as  in  that  of  the  emperors , 
Rome  begged  her  bread.  She  works  today,  but  has 
she  lost  the  courage  to  push  the  plough  ?  See  her  seated 
here  in  this  vast  meadow  of  sparse  rank  grass  like 
that  which  grows  above  the  cliffs  of  Northern  seas, 
upon  the  dunes  of  the  Channel.  Since  that  distant 
day  when  the  last  discouraged  Roman  put  his  tools 
in  his  stable  and  went  to  hold  out  his  hand  at  the 
palazzo  door,  the  Campagna  has  not  changed;  the 
undulating  grass  upon  the  undulating  soil,  both 
scanty,  the  soil  unrenewed,  the  grass  lacking  the 
strength  to  grow;  and  not  a  roof,  not  a  flock,  not  a 
man.  Is  the  new-born  city  and  country  going  to 
ignore  the  ancient  soil  where  Tarquin  made  his  bulls 
kneel,  where  the  flocks  used  to  skip  and  jump, 
upon  which  Horace  used  to  look  tenderly  from  the 
height  of  his  litter  on  his  way  to  the  Tiber,  rejoicing 
in  the  generous  bloom?  Is  modern  Rome  going  to 
leave  her  magnificent  Campagna  to  foxes,  dogs,  and 
hunters?  Following  the  dogs  is  the  only  life  remain- 
ing to  it  now.  That  is  free;  even  the  low  walls  serve 
rather  as  benches  than  as  barriers.  Why  has  the 
fruitful  half-century  which  has  so  changed  the  face 


TELLUS  MAGNA   VIRUM  329 

of  Italy  disdained  these  fields,  leaving  them  to  the 
sterility  which  has  so  long  possessed  them?  Every- 
thing feels  Italy's  new  renaissance  except  this  death 
where  there  is  no  sap,  no  breath,  where  nothing 
emerges  from  the  despised  and  neglected  soil  but  rank 
grass  and  weeds,  but  the  great  ruins  of  the  tombs  and 
of  the  aqueduct  which  seem  to  impose  its  uselessness 
upon  all  that  it  commands. 

The  arches  stretch  out  endlessly,  chained  together 
or  solitary,  poor,  enormous  bodies  strayed  and  lost 
in  the  arid  fields,  carrying  as  well  as  they  can  their 
load  of  stopped-up  stones.  Now  and  again  an  arch 
has  freed  itself  from  the  others,  and  you  see  the  broken 
conduit.  Nevertheless  the  colossus  keeps  on  his  way 
as  if  it  were  not  his  own  members  he  was  sowing  along 
his  road.  Sometimes  he  seems  to  halt  near  an  um- 
brella pine  as  if  to  refresh  himself  in  the  shade  that 
reminds  him  of  the  Sabine  Mountains  whence  he 
came,  now  so  many  centuries  ago.  Will  he  never 
arrive  at  his  destination?  Rome  is  still  so  far  away, 
too  far,  perhaps!  He  rises  again,  takes  a  few  steps, 
falls  once  more,  tries  again,  but  at  length  succumbs, 
not  to  rise  another  time.  "I  am  tired  out,"  he  says; 
"my  day  is  done.  Let  the  re-born  city  look  after 
her  own  life." 

The  re-born  city  certainly  has  looked  after  her 
dead.  Away  out  upon  this  road  and  upon  this  deso- 
late Campagna  I  see  nothing  which  is  not  cared  for 
with  the  same  respect  as  are  the  Forum  and  the  Pala- 
tine. The  Basilica  of  Cassar,  the  Palace  of  Augustus, 
the  Via  Appia,  Acqua  Claudia ;  all  advertise  the  same 


330  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

care,  and  he  who  knows  how  to  look  and  to  feel  will 
be  as  much  moved  among  these  ruins  of  earth  and 
water  as  before  the  sub-basements  of  the  Regia  and 
the  arches  of  Septimius  Severus.  Why  should  these 
great  red  arms  of  the  aqueduct  be  less  memorable 
than  the  columns  of  the  Castor  and  Pollux?  Are 
not  the  meadows  of  the  Via  Latina  as  beautiful  as  the 
marbled  fields  of  the  Forum?  The  old  Rome  of  the 
kings  of  the  Gracchi,  of  Caesar  lies  here.  It  had  to 
have  its  cemetery  and  new  Rome  abandoned  this  to 
them.  As  the  churches  surround  the  tombs  of  their 
ancestors  who  sleep  under  the  shadows  of  their  bel- 
fries so  does  the  great  Roman  temple  keep  close 
its  dead.  Rome  respects  the  abandoned  Campagna 
which  is  her  necropolis.  More  than  two  thousand 
years  lie  in  these  fields.  We  need  not  be  astonished 
that  they  are  so  vast.  What  I  have  seen  on  the  Via 
Appia  and  the  Via  Latina  is  not  much  beside  what 
lies  there  under  the  soil!  Tombs,  aqueducts,  waving 
grass,  all  that  has  grown  here  is  born  of  the  Roman 
grandeur,  and  if  the  men  have  abandoned  flocks  and 
houses,  it  is  because  the  living  cannot  inhabit  mauso- 
leums. I  shall  never  see  life  and  labour  develop  in 
this  Campagna.  It  is  an  asylum,  a  retreat,  not  the 
arena.  Just  now,  as  I  was  approaching  a  stone, 
mechanically  I  took  off  my  hat,  as  I  would  do  before 
a  family  vault.  The  Roman  Campagna  is  a  sepulchre 
for  which  the  world  will  never  lose  its  respect. 

Night  falls  while  I  linger,  seated  on  a  low  wall  and 
watched  in  every  motion  by  a  fox  at  a  distance.  The 
rising  mists  twine  their  blue  and  mauve  veils  about 


TELLUS  MAGNA   VIRUM  331 

the  aqueduct.  The  setting  sun  rouges  the  face  of  the 
world  over  there  by  the  Tiber.  "In  istd  luce  vivel" 
wrote  Cicero  to  Rufus,  of  the  shores  of  Asia.  It  is 
always  the  same  light,  opaline,  pink,  shading  so  gently, 
so  infinitely  purely,  now  brightly,  now  tenderly  from 
one  tint  to  another.  It  spreads  over  the  grass  which  it 
darkens,  it  catches  upon  the  tombs  which  it  kindles 
to  a  blaze,  it  caresses  the  marbles  which  it  rejuvenates. 
Soon  it  will  fade  and  go  to  sleep.  The  plain  will  keep 
watch  and  shine  still.  Lorraine's  light!  We  might 
say  so.  It  is  Cicero's  light  which  shines  upon  the 
forehead  of  Cincinnatus  as  he  brings  his  oxen  out  of 
the  furrow. 

Before  taking  the  road  back  to  Rome  I  have  been 
underground.  Not  far  from  the  Via  Latina,  two 
tombs  have  been  dug  out;  those  of  the  Valerii  and  of 
the  Pancratii.  The  stuccoes  and  paintings  in  them 
are  still  fresh,  and  the  nymphs,  genii,  gods,  and  heroes 
dance  and  smile.  They,  too,  are  dead,  yet  it  seems 
that  could  the  other  dead  but  appear,  they  would 
smile  with  them.  This  harvestless  land  which  looks 
to  others  as  it  has  to  me  so  sinister,  will,  if  we  give  a 
thoughtful  ear  to  its  murmurings,  breathe  unto  us 
the  most  pure  and  holy  peace.  It  will  yield  up  the 
crowned  dead,  man  and  marble,  will  spring  out  of  the 
dust.  Let  them  sleep,  they  who  have  worked  so  hard 
in  their  day !  The  plough  that  passed  here  would  cut 
open  their  breasts.  Rome's  children  make  for  their 
mother  a  magnificent  pedestal  of  their  bones  and  of 
their  dust. 


Twenty-fifth.  Day 

THE  VOICE  OF  JUVENAL 

THe  Lateran. 

T  the  end  of  an  immense  square,  shut  in 
on  the  left  by  the  walls  of  the  city, 
on  the  right  by  a  garden  and  the  re- 
mains of  an  old  palace,  is  the  Lateran, 
church,  museum,  baptistery,  which,  as 
it  stands  today,  never  was  occupied  by  the  papacy. 
The  indifference,  indeed  the  hostility  of  the  popes, 
in  spite  of  appearances,  for  this  place  which  saw  their 
first  spiritual  and  temporal  strength,  is  altogether 
inexplicable.  To  be  sure  Peter  was  buried  on  the 

332 


THE  VOICE  OF  JUVENAL  333 

Vatican;  but  what  a  line  of  his  successors  was  laid 
here!  All  those  early  bishops  of  Rome,  the  great 
popes,  and  the  saints  who  confirmed  the  establish- 
ment of  the  Church,  developed  and  honoured  it,  from 
Saint  Sylvester  to  Boniface  VIII.,  including  Leo  III., 
Gregory  VII.,  and  Innocent  III.!  One  would  think 
that  since  the  papacy  had  suffered  the  chagrin  of  being 
driven  out  of  the  Lateran, — for  that  shameless  exile 
at  Avignon, — it  would  have  wished  to  enjoy  the  tri- 
umph of  its  return  in  the  same  place.  Evidently  it 
preferred  to  make  an  excuse  of  the  damage  the  Lateran 
had  suffered  by  fire  in  its  absence  to  direct  its  return 
to  Symmachus's  little  house,  which,  by  the  way,  had 
been  enlarged  by  at  least  three  of  his  successors.  There, 
perhaps,  the  line  of  the  Apostolic  Succession  was  re- 
solved to  start  afresh,  making  a  new  home  and  ignor- 
ing all  memory  of  the  trying  times  it  had  endured  as  a 
disputed  kingdom  attacked  by  the  armies  of  its  ene- 
mies. It  thought  to  renew  its  strength  at  the  source, 
Peter's  tomb.  We  know  who  and  what  came  of 
those  purifying  intentions;  Alexander  VI.  the  Borgian, 
whose  son  Caesar  barely  missed,  there  at  the  Vatican, 
succeeding  in  the  absolute  civil  reconstruction  of  the 
religious  kingdom  prepared  so  long  before  at  the 
Lateran. 

Of  the  palace  of  the  Laterani  family,  given  by 
Constantine  to  Sylvester  I.,  the  present  palace  of  the 
Lateran  possesses  nothing,  scarcely  the  ground,  since 
it  used  to  occupy  what  is  now  the  piazza,.  Even  the 
little  Sancta  Sanctorum,  the  pope's  private  chapel,  seen 
at  the  head  of  the  Scala  Santa  dates  from  but  the  last 


334  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

years  before  the  flight  to  Avignon.  What  was  left 
by  the  fire  was  pulled  down  after  the  return,  when 
the  papacy  was  definitely  installed  upon  the  Vatican. 
The  church  was  rebuilt  first,  and  at  length  Sixtus  V. 
decided  to  raise  a  new  palace  in  the  Baroque  style. 
The  only  testimony  that  Rome  can  offer  of  the 
formative  epoch  of  the  Church  is  entirely  figurative. 
No  pope  ever  lodged  in  the  present  Lateran;  even 
when  it  was  admitted  that  the  Vatican  was  too  far 
out  of  the  Roman  world,  Gregory  XIII.  built  the 
Quirinal,  still  more  inaccessible  as  a  palace,  but  a  cool 
and  breezy  place  in  summer. 

Stripped  of  its  souvenirs  though  it  is,  the  Lateran 
is  not  neglected  by  the  visitor  to  Rome  who,  no  matter 
where  he  goes  in  this  suggestive  city,  cannot  lose 
himself  in  the  present.  Here  upon  this  square,  which 
has  nothing  on  it  now  but  an  obelisk,  I  see  gathered, 
among  others,  the  shades  of  the  family  of  Theophy- 
lactus  and  his  daughter  Marozia.  Here  took  place, 
some  ten  centuries  ago,  the  passionate  events  I  tried  to 
define  last  year  at  Spoleto. *  It  is  only  on  this  square 
that  we  can  locate  the  first  attempt  at  the  formation 
of  the  Italian  kingdom,  that  ideal  which,  for  so  many 
centuries  was  a  mirage,  which  Caesar  Borgia  failed  to 
constitute,  and  which  it  was  reserved  to  the  family  of 
Berold  the  Saxon  of  Savoy  to  realize  in  the  day  of 
men  still  living.  The  Church  has  always  blushed  for 
her  John  XII.  's  and  her  Benedict  IX. 's  whose  mistakes 
were  to  go  too  fast,  to  declare  their  purposes  too 
openly.  It  may  be  that  behind  the  pretext  of  the 

1  Little  Cities  of  Italy,  vol.  ii.,  chap.  xv. 


THE  VOICE  OF  JUVENAL  335 

burnt  ruin,  was  hidden  a  sense  of  shame  which  was 
the  motive  for  taking  refuge  in  the  Vatican,  and  per- 
haps Sixtus  V.  was  but  effacing  mortifying  memories 
under  the  artistic  taste  of  his  time. 

If  such  was  his  object,  he  could  be  proud  of  his 
work,  so  absolutely  did  he  attain  it.  The  only  testi- 
mony of  the  Lateran  of  the  past  that  he  allowed  to 
remain  intact  was  the  baptistery  where,  it  was  said, 
Constantine  had  himself  baptized.  Sixtus,  making 
the  obscure  centuries  still  more  obscure  by  the  demo- 
lition of  the  walls  over  which  they  had  passed,  joined 
the  first  embrace  of  the  faith  to  its  golden  age.  Was 
Constantine  really  received  into  the  Christian  com- 
munity under  these  columns?  It  is  doubted,  but 
that  is  of  no  consequence;  certainly  this  baptistery 
dates  from  the  earliest  days  of  the  Church,  from  the 
fifth  century,  at  least.  In  its  columns,  in  its  form,  and 
in  its  panellings  it  speaks  to  us  of  the  round  temple; 
its  octagonal  exterior  wall  has  served  for  the  model  of 
all  baptisteries:  those  of  Florence,  Parma,  Bergamo, 
Pisa,  Pistoia,  all  that  I  have  seen  throughout  Italy. 
The  interior  colonnade  makes  it  brother  to  San  Stefano 
Rotondo,  to  the  Mausoleum  of  Constantia.  It  is 
the  Roman  stamp,  the  link  uniting  the  old  civiliza- 
tion with  the  new.  Four  chapels  flank  this  baptistery, 
all  decorated,  at  different  epochs,  with  paintings  or 
with  mosaics,  the  most  beautiful  of  which  are  those 
of  the  ancient  oratory  of  San  Venanzio.  In  the  centre 
is  the  baptismal  font  where,  if  not  Constantine,  cer- 
tainly a  hundred  generations  of  Romans  became 
Christians.  Are  little  children  still  plunged  into  it? 


336  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

If  so,  it  is  inexcusable  to  have  relegated  the  statue  of 
the  Precursor  to  a  chapel — at  least,  it  would  be  so,  if 
the  very  name  of  the  author  of  that  work  were  not 
enough  to  inspire  one  with  shame  to  look  at  it,  Vala- 
dier, — the  execrable  profaner  who  had  the  temerity 
to  rebuild  the  Arch  of  Titus  and  who  committed  so 
many  other  crimes.  The  good  guardian,  who  bore 
me  unnecessary  company,  thought  to  please  me  by 
talking  about  him,  and  I  kept  quiet  so  as  not  to  dis- 
appoint the  old  man.  How  many  good  intentions  in 
this  world  have  no  more  solid  ground!  I  made  haste 
to  flee,  however,  red  with  shame,  from  mere  remem- 
brance that  Valadier  was  a  Frenchman.  But  the 
man  stopped  me  again.  At  Pisa  the  custodian  bawls 
out  the  four  notes  of  perfect  harmony  that  we  may 
admire  the  echoes  of  his  baptistery.  In  Rome  these 
four  notes  are  groaned  out  by  the  hinges  of  the  bronze 
doors  which  the  good  man  opens  and  shuts  slowly  to 
prolong  their  effect.  I  halt  in  my  flight  to  talk  to 
the  instrumentalist,  ruddy  and  full  of  years,  dressed 
in  his  long  coat  shining  with  medals.  To  my  surprise 
he  begins  to  speak  of  Paris  as  tenderly  as  he  did  of 
Valadier,  and  then  he  confides  to  me  that  he  was  an 
officer  of  the  Pontifical  Army  under  Pius  IX.  When 
he  goes  up  to  the  Janiculum  what  must  he  think  when 
he  sees  the  statue  of  him  whom  he  vanquished  at 
Mentana?  The  papacy,  become  spiritual  again,  re- 
tired him  with  the  position  of  leader  of  the  orchestra 
of  the  baptistery,  with  sole  right — anyway  it  is  his 
sole  means  of  subsistence — to  work  the  handle  which 
wakes  the  singing  hinges  of  these  doors  presented  by 


THE  VOICE  OF  JUVENAL  337 

Hilarius  to  the  baptistery  upon  which  Constantine,  a 
century  earlier,  is  supposed  to  have  conferred  immortal 
fame  by  there  becoming  a  Christian.  These  doors 
have  been  pushed  open  for — if  not  by — the  imperious 
hands  of  Hildebrand  and  Innocent  III.  Do  not  those 
hinges  groan  louder  for  the  pontifical  officer's  bread 
than  he  is  aware  of,  louder  than  we  care  to  hear? 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Basilica  of  San  Giovanni  in 
Laterano,  says  to  us  but  a  repetition  of  what  we  have 
heard  before.  The  fagade,  a  hundred  years  younger 
than  the  fagade  of  Saint  Peter's,  and  the  interior  which 
is  contemporary,  have  been  built  in  visible  anxiety  to 
make  this  church  appear  to  be  as  well  treated  as  the 
other,  while,  in  fact,  it  was  left  to  the  second  rank, 
that  of  a  parochial  church  of  the  popes.  Borromini 
hastened  to  transform  the  columns  into  pillars,  and 
Galilei  adopted  for  his  fagade  the  order  of  the  portico 
surmounted  by  the  loggia.  Galilei  did  not  put  that 
loggia  there  for  mischief  evidently,  nevertheless  we 
see,  with  satisfaction,  that  he  was  more  successful  in 
his  work  than  was  Maderno.  Eternal  justice  de- 
manded that  the  original  church  make  a  greater  im- 
pression than  the  new  one.  Borromini,  at  least,  knew 
how  to  keep  his  place.  He  tried  to  do  nothing  but 
to  dazzle,  and  he  succeeded.  Much  more  than  in 
Saint  Peter's  or  in  all  the  other  churches  of  Rome,  we 
may  see  in  the  Lateran  the  value  of  the  Baroque  art. 
It  here  expresses  the  maximum  of  its  effect,  and  once 
again  we  must  reproach  it  for  substituting  something 
else  to  which  it  is  inferior.  A  bit  of  a  fresco  by  Giotto 
has  been  stupidly  preserved  on  a  pillar.  It  is  a  dan- 


338  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

gerous  memento,  but  San  Giovanni  suffers  by  it  only. 
To  eyes  that  are  innocent  or  systematically  contem- 
poranean,  which  but  judge  things  on  their  own  merits, 
this  is  a  noble  church.  At  any  rate,  it  is  magnificent. 
The  enormous  white  pillars  stand  in  majestic  succes- 
sion, although  their  sumptuous  statues,  sustaining 
a  ceiling  of  sombre  richness,  lead  to  an  altar  upon 
which  God  has  not  come  down  for  some  fifty  years, 
where  the  pope  alone  can  celebrate  the  sacrifice  and 
which  the  church  on  the  Vatican  might  envy,  if  it 
were  not  so  sombre.  The  apse,  little  of  the  Baroque 
as  it  has,  with  its  redressings  of  Cosmati  marbles,  its 
mosaics,  and  its  transepts  inspired  by  San  Paolo,  is 
one  of  the  most  solemn  in  Rome.  The  tomb  of  Leo 
XIII.,  raised  to  him  by  Cardinal  Rampolla,  still  waits 
for  his  remains  above  the  sacristy  door.  Leo  XIII.,  in 
the  depths  of  San  Giovanni  in  Laterano, — when  he 
makes  his  last  journey  from  Saint  Peter's, — may  be 
proud  of  the  choir  he  enlarged  by  throwing  back  the 
apse  without  ruining  it  and  bear  testimony  that  he 
and  Clement  XII.  alone  were  the  authors  of  the  pre- 
sent church,  understanding  the  parts  they  played  in 
the  work  and  the  lesson  it  teaches. 

The  palace  of  the  Lateran,  built  adjoining  the 
church,  is  the  great  classic  palace  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  brother  of  the  Vatican  and  of  the  Farnese, 
unfortunately  more  of  the  first  than  of  the  second. 
The  coldness  of  it  is  mortal,  in  spite  of  the  radiantly 
beautiful  collections  that  have  been  crowded  into  it. 
Never  lived  in,  it  emanates  a  dense  atmosphere  of 
abandon  and  ingratitude,  in  the  cortile,  with  the 


Anderson 


St.  John  Lateran,  Exterior 


Anderson 


St.  John  Lateran,  Interior 


,  t 


***o>*BS! 


THE  VOICE  OF  JUVENAL  339 


doorways  painted  in  imitation  of  the  loggias  of  the 
Vatican,  and  in  the  great  rooms  eternally  waiting  to  be 
finished.  Yet  for  two  hours  I  forgot  how  useless  and 
vain,  ostentatious  and  lugubrious  it  is,  lamentably 
lost,  as  I  was,  in  examining  its  antiques,  beautiful  as 
the  best  of  the  Vatican.  Some  of  them  are  unique, 
such  as  the  mosaic  from  the  Thermae  of  Caracalla,  the 
Sophocles,  the  Dancing  Faun,  and  the  prodigious 
series  of  Christian  sarcophagi,  all  as  generous  as  the 
sarcophagus  of  Alexander  Severus  at  the  Capitol. 
Any  one  who  has  been  thrilled  by  the  wonderful 
works  of  the  Vatican  cannot  afford  to  forego  the  two 
museums  of  the  Lateran.  In  these  poor  rooms, 
scarcely  rough-cast,  badly  lighted,  without  decoration 
of  any  sort,  cut  by  the  pavement  of  the  portes-cochtres, 
where  the  wind  whistles  and  the  statues  seem  like 
exiles,  I  think  of  that  other  palace  over  there  which 
has  usurped  the  lustre  due  to  this  cradle  of  the  cult 
which  has  reared  them  both. 

Looking  at  the  walls  of  the  Vatican,  I  thought  of 
Versailles.  Before  the  Lateran,  I  think  of  it  much 
more.  After  the  Fronde,  the  king  of  France  left 
Versailles  forever,  returning  to  Paris  only  as  a  prisoner. 
The  papacy  driven  out  of  the  Lateran  by  the  Roman 
people,  on  returning  in  triumph  to  Rome,  sixty-six 
years  later  hid  its  shame  in  the  Vatican — where,  as 
events  have  turned  out,  it  has  been  prisoner  for  an- 
other half  century  even  now.  The  same  phenomenon 
has  been  seen  in  the  north  of  Europe  where  an  emperor 
not  daring  to  return  to  his  capitol,  hid  himself  in  his 
castle.  The  outcome  seems  fatal,  that  is  to  say  neces- 


340  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

sitated  by  the  very  essence  of  despotic  power,  and 
rigorously  melancholy.  To  the  Vatican  we  owe 
Bramante,  Michelangelo,  and  Raphael  in  Rome.  In 
the  Lateran  they  would  have  found  a  church  and  a 
palace  worthy  of  them.  The  vast  space,  which  sur- 
rounds it,  too  vast  for  the  present  building,  would 
have  permitted  the  development  of  fitting  galleries 
for  those  antiques  which  are  the  glory  of  the  right  bank 
of  the  Tiber.  The  exodus  of  the  popes  to  Avignon 
was  nothing  beside  their  removal  from  the  Lateran 
to  the  Vatican.  Alexander  VI.  and  Leo  X.  tell  us 
plainly  that  the  exile  at  Avignon  taught  the  papacy 
nothing.  The  customs  carried  from  the  Lateran 
to  Avignon,  which  made  Petrarch  call  the  exiled 
court  a  sink,  were  brought  back  to  the  Vatican  and 
flourished  there  while  the  political  evil  grew  wider  and 
deeper  and  stronger.  Like  Louis  XIV.  and  Louis  XV., 
the  papacy  might  dazzle  the  world  with  artistic  splen- 
dours never  before  equalled ;  but  it  was,  like  the  French 
monarchy,  none  the  less  upon  the  dizzy  road  to  ruin. 
If  one  passes  over  the  course  of  that  march,  one  sees 
that  the  only  moments  when  the  papacy  was  great 
and  strong  were  those  when  it  lived  in  communion 
with  the  people  of  Italy,  when  it  was  purely  Guelph. 
How  beautiful  it  was  in  the  time  of  the  Lombards,  of 
Gregory  VII.,  of  the  Othos,  of  Barbarossa!  It  has 
not  known  how  to  understand  the  lesson  of  its  history. 
Returning  to  Rome,  triumphant  over  the  factions, 
like  Louis  over  the  Fronde,  in  place  of  taking  up  close 
relations  with  its  people,  wherein  lay  its  strength,  it 
ran  and  hid.  It  was  ashamed  of  the  quarrels  which 


THE  VOICE  OF  JUVENAL  341 

drained  its  life,  that  is  to  say,  the  sentiment  of  its 
mission.  In  the  palace  "without  fagade  and  almost 
without  approach,"  it  settled  down  to  live,  like  our 
kings  at  Versailles,  looking  at  itself  and  never  around 
about  itself.  The  awakening  of  1848  was  terrible. 

"It  is  useless,  Cassander,  I  have  wearied  the  throne 
and  my  country  enough  with  my  despised  warnings; 
nothing  remains  but  to  seat  myself  upon  the  debris  of 
the  wreck  I  have  so  often  predicted.  .  .  .  Pious  libel- 
lers, the  apostate  calls  you!  Come  then,  stammer  a 
word,  a  single  word  with  him  for  the  unfortunate 
master  who  loaded  you  with  gifts  and  whom  you  have 
lost!" 

So  thundered  Chateaubriand  in  the  Chamber  of  the 
Peers  on  the  7th  of  August,  1830;  Chateaubriand,  whose 
undeceived  ghost  we  run  into  at  every  step  here. 
Ever  since  the  day  when  the  misfortune  that  struck 
Charles  X.  fell  upon  the  Vatican,  the  same  clamours 
have  been  raised  which  we,  from  the  height  of  the 
same  disinterestedness  may  try  to  restrain.  The 
papacy  has  tried  in  vain  to  deceive  itself  and  the  world 
with  its  attachment  to  the  tomb  of  Saint  Peter;  a 
thing  of  much  greater  prestige  and  solidity  in  the 
ambitious  eyes  of  the  Saint's  successors  attracted 
them  to  this  shrine.  It  was  the  vision,  constituted  by 
the  ages  since  the  official  recognition  of  the  Catholic 
religion  by  Constantine  up  to  the  time  of  Clement  V. ; 
the  mirage  of  the  temporal  grandeur  of  the  Church, 
inseparable,  in  the  ideas  of  the  papacy,  from  the  poli- 
tical and  social  formation  of  a  new  Italy.  The  Lateran 
had  presided  over  this  development.  To  abandon  it 


342  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

was  worse  than  an  act  of  ingratitude;  it  was  an  evi- 
dence of  aberration.  The  law  may  be  abominable,  it 
is  rigorous.  A  prince  cannot  break  with  his  origin 
without  losing  his  princehood.  He  is  denied  by  his 
subjects  who,  contrary  to  appearances,  do  not  break 
with  the  past,  but,  on  giving  themselves  up  to  those 
who  blaspheme  the  past,  themselves  reforge  the  chain 
of  their  natural  development.  To  abandon  the 
Lateran  was,  on  the  part  of  the  papacy,  to  declare  null 
and  void  all  which  had  occurred  there;  to  build  the 
Vatican  was  to  proclaim  that  a  new  era  had  begun, 
and  what  an  era!  The  era  of  despotism,  not  even  of 
Ghibellinism — which  would  have  been  understood, 
since  Ghibellinism  was  an  Italian  political  form, — but 
of  the  simple  autocratic  government.  The  Church 
knew  that  perfectly  at  bottom.  Saint  Peter's  throne 
may  be  at  the  Vatican,  but  the  Lateran  still  keeps  the 
table  upon  which  Peter  worked  the  miracle  of  the 
Transubstantiation.  They  never  dared  carry  that 
up  the  hill,  no  more  than  the  other  relics,  the  Arc  of 
the  Covenant,  the  rod  of  Moses.  Those  ancient 
symbols  have  a  right  to  rule  where  they  are.  An 
insurmountable  force  retains  them  at  the  Lateran, 
the  force  which  dominates  men,  I  mean  the  raison 
d'etre.  The  Scala  Santa  also  has  been  left  to  the 
Lateran,  where  pilgrims  still  mount  the  steps  on  their 
knees.  The  pope,  on  the  Vatican,  has  never  asked 
himself  what  the  faithful  must  think  of  this  abandon- 
ment. The  pope  has  two  religions:  one  that  prays 
and  one  that  governs.  The  two  have  been  separated, 
and  it  is  vain  for  the  Vatican  to  pretend  to  reunite 


THE  VOICE  OF  JUVENAL  343 

them.  The  Holy  Father  cut  himself  off  from  the 
world  of  the  living  in  fleeing  this  place  where  the  first 
Christians  prayed,  suffered,  and  prospered.  The 
deserted  Lateran  is  sinister  in  its  icy  showiness.  I 
was  thinking  some  time  ago  that  Leo  XIII.  had  chosen 
the  place  of  his  sepulchre  for  a  sublime  return  to  the 
past  and  for  a  strong  lesson.  May  there  not  be  some 
fear  of  a  popular  movement  in  the  delay  over  laying 
him  to  sleep  here?  What  is  feared  in  the  near  future 
is  that  when  this  transfer  is  made,  the  indifference 
amidst  which  the  papacy  lives  in  Rome  will  become 
patent  to  all  the  world.  Leo  XIII.  will  wait  a  long 
time  to  lie  in  his  sepulchre.  To  give  it  him  would 
be  to  acknowledge  too  many  disappointments  and 
miscalculations. 

In  recent  years  how  unmoved  has  the  Vatican  seen 
the  descendants  of  Mohammed,  once  the  great  enemy, 
attempt  a  popular  regeneration!  If  it  were  still  sen- 
sitive to  what  takes  place  outside  its  zone,  would  it 
not  have  trembled  to  see  the  resurrection  by  its  own 
democratic  forces  of  the  impious  violaters  and  con- 
querors of  the  Holy  Sepulchre?  Papal  Rome,  shut 
against  all  that  is  not  comprised  in  her  little  trans- 
Tiberian  domain,  obstinately  turns  her  back  on  the 
world's  acts,  and  in  this  self -concentration,  refuses 
the  Lateran  the  ashes  of  the  last  clear-sighted  pope. 
Did  Juvenal,  the  great  Latin  satirist,  foresee  those 
who  would  raise  up  the  ghost  of  Adrian,  when  he 
asked  if  it  was  worth  while  to  remain  alive  when  one 
had  lost  all  object  in  living? 


Twenty-sixth.  Day 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  ENDYMION 

.Albano,  Nemi 

ET  us  consecrate  one  day  of  this  month 
in  Rome  entirely  to  nature.  Oh,  I 
know  that  the  Roman  landscape 
cannot  be  separated  from  its  associa- 
tions, especially  those  which  are  of 
Alba  Longa.  But  they  exist  only  as  sites;  nothing 
from  the  hand  of  man  remains  there  but  the  villages 
with  their  little  streets.  There  are  no  monuments,  no 
notable  ruins ;  only  the  mountains,  the  rocks,  and  the 
lakes.  It  is  to  be  a  day  of  rest.  The  body  may  feel 
some  fatigue,  but  the  mind,  overloaded  with  marvels 
of  art,  will  have  an  opportunity  to  balance  its  burden 
with  the  refreshing  marvels  of  nature.  Yet,  at  the 

344 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  ENDYMION  345 

moment  of  submitting  my  programme,  I  am  seized  by 
the  fear  that  I  have  planned  to  see  too  much  on  this 
excursion  to  the  Alban  Mountains.  Although  start- 
ing forth  for  Albano  and  Nemi,  favoured  by  trams 
and  led  on  by  friends  as  intrepid  as  they  are  thought- 
ful, I  have  been  tempted  to  go  the  long  way  around. 
I  do  not  urge  you  to  accompany  me,  but  if  you  shoul- 
der the  responsibility  yourself,  come.  You  will  have 
to  rise  at  daylight  and  you  cannot  return  before  sun- 
down. You  must  take  the  day  as  a  whole,  as  you 
will  take  everything  on  this  excursion,  and  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that  for  this  sort  of  spectacle,  which  is 
altogether  of  impressions,  the  panoramic  view  of  things 
is  worth  more  than  the  partial  and  minute  examina- 
tion. Nature  reveals  herself  in  great  lines,  masses,  and 
horizons.  Her  character  is  in  the  ensemble;  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  source  is  felt  in  the  windings  of  the  river. 
Do  we  not  find  this  true  at  once  in  the  rivers  that 
we  follow  in  the  tram  across  the  Campagna,  along  the 
line  of  the  ruddy  aqueducts?  The  Alban  springs 
flow  away  toward  the  marshes  of  the  Campus  Mar- 
tius,  carrying  the  cradle  of  the  twins  out  of  which  rose 
the  City  of  the  Seven  Hills,  and  the  waves  have  never 
ceased  to  flow  from  the  sons  of  Ascanius,  enriching 
the  country  of  Evander.  As  we  remount  the  courses 
of  these  fertile  waters,  following  up  the  direction  of 
the  Acqua  Claudia,  the  way  soon  begins  to  climb  the 
Alban  buttresses.  On  the  left,  Frascati's  villas  cling 
to  their  terraces,  larger  and  more  majestic  than  Tivoli, 
although  the  memories  and  the  ruins  of  Tusculum 
make  it  less  glorious.  The  tram  begins  to  pant,  and 


346  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

gradually  we  see  Rome  heaped  up  and  spread  out  at 
the  same  time.  We  turn  and  tack  this  way  and  that 
toward  the  beautiful  oaks  which  we  already  begin  to 
see  swaying  in  the  breeze.  The  olive  trees  along  our 
route  bend  under  the  wind  made  by  the  passing  tram, 
giving  us  a  salute  of  friendly  welcome.  Scarred  old 
fellows,  they  are  witnesses  that  one  would  like  to 
question  upon  all  that  they  have  seen,  and  their 
knotty,  cut-off  heads  inspire  a  respect  which  keeps  us 
serious  in  spite  of  the  smiling  verdure  so  profusely 
spread  about  us.  Omnipresent  and  omnipotent  as  is 
the  living  green,  King  Rock  does  not  abdicate.  He 
pierces  through  every  mass  and  clump,  and  the  jagged 
edges  where  he  has  been  lacerated  for  the  passage  of 
the  tram  unite  him,  quivering,  as  it  were,  to  our 
souvenirs  of  Rome.  A  halt  along  the  shady  way  indi- 
cates the  road  to  Frascati.  A  few  steps  farther  on 
is  Grotta  Ferrata  where  I  came  a  fortnight  ago  in 
search  of  Domenichino.  The  god  of  the  trams,  who 
makes  one  follow  another  at  short  intervals  out  in  this 
region,  will  permit  us  a  second  visit  to  Saint  Nil,  and 
if  you  did  not  share  my  cafard  then,  you  have  the 
opportunity  now  to  become  acquainted  with  and  to 
love  the  greatest  of  the  Bolognese.  For  a  long  time 
Grotta  Ferrata  passed  for  the  Tusculum  of  Cicero,  but, 
it  seems,  we  are  no  longer  allowed  to  believe  that. 
Tusculum  is  up  there  on  the  left  behind  Frascati, 
where  you  see  ruins.  Grotta  Ferrata  has  no  ruins, 
so  we  need  not  look  for  Cicero  in  the  streets  of  this 
little  village,  but  return  to  the  trolley  which  takes  us 
down  toward  Valle  Violata. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  ENDYMION  347 

Another  halt  on  the  line!  It  is  the  branch  going 
to — strictly  speaking,  toward — Rocca  di  Papa.  For 
a  long  time  it  twists  and  turns,  cleverly  picking  its 
way  in  the  fallen  ground,  describing  a  serpent  whose 
head  lies  in  the  axis  of  the  tail,  and,  giving  up  its 
task,  at  last,  confides  us  to  a  funicular  which  deposits 
us  at  the  foot  of  the  Rocca  di  Papa.  Were  you  ex- 
pecting it  to  be  like  this  ?  One  should  always  distrust 
surprises.  For  my  part,  the  Rocca  di  Papa  seems 
to  me,  and  I  believe  I  shall  always  remember  it  as  the 
most  haughty  of  landscapes,  equal,  at  least,  to  San 
Gimignano  or  to  Montefalco.  Equal!  The  emerald 
sea  upon  which  Rocca  di  Papa  looks  above  the  lapis- 
lazuli  of  the  Lake  of  Albano  gives  to  the  city  a  sub- 
limity to  which  Tuscany  and  Umbria,  magnificent  as 
they  are,  can  make  no  pretensions.  The  little  town 
has  taken  possession  of  a  peak  towering  above  all  the 
others  except  Cavo,  and  the  alleys  called  streets,  that 
grip  the  calamitous  flank,  pour  infection  into  one 
another.  My  first  thought  is  that  there  is  no  way  to 
enjoy  this  unclean  village,  but  one  might  avoid  suffer- 
ing in  visiting  it  only  if  one  were  furnished  with  a 
pulley  and  smelling  salts.  I  turn  my  head,  nauseated, 
and  in  an  instant  all  disgust  is  forgotten  in  the  view. 
Frascati  stands  out  on  the  right  at  the  foot  of  the 
Lake  of  Albano,  that  great  bowl  of  burning  blue,  made 
brighter  by  the  green  of  the  oaks.  From  the  lake 
stretching  to  the  Rocca  is  that  wide  plain  out  of  which 
extends  Alba  Longa;  and  over  there  beyond  Castel 
Gandolfo  and  Albano  lies  the  shining  sea,  scarcely 
veiled  by  her  morning  mists.  Mountains  are  every- 


348  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

where,  toward  the  country,  toward  the  sea,  toward  the 
generous  valley  of  Ariccia  and  away  to  the  sterile 
plains  of  Rome.  Rocca  di  Papa  dominates  the  Alban 
chain  like  a  sordid,  but  enchanting  queen,  command- 
ing the  peaceful  waters  and  the  tumultuous  waves. 
Let  us  climb  still  higher  and  enjo}>'  to  the  full  her  pitiful 
pride.  When  we  have  passed  the  last  houses  we  see, 
between  them  and  the  steep  side  of  Monte  Cavo, 
where  Jupiter  Latiaris  watched  over  his  people,  the 
freshest  of  delightful  valleys.  There  is  a  legend  that 
Hannibal  camped  there.  It  was  then  that  Jupiter 
drew  back  his  hand.  I  like  to  find  in  this  legend  the 
cause  of  the  Romans  falling  away  from  their  gods. 
How  could  the  people  adore  deities  who  consented  to 
Jupiter's  permitting  Hannibal  to  spread  out  his  forces 
without  striking  him  by  lightning?  But  how  well 
we  understand  the  Carthaginians!  The  freshness, 
the  sweetness,  the  richness  of  this  valley  and  its  peace- 
ful flocks  are  inexpressible ;  the  pastures  are  the  green 
of  young  crops ;  trees  grow  thickly  on  the  flanks  of  the 
old  crater,  and  the  smiling  tenderness  of  nature  in  a 
fine  and  delicate  mood  seems  exalted  by  the  day.  It 
is  Sunday.  Young  people  stroll  about,  lovemaking  in 
this  charming  garden  which  is  shut  in,  yet  spread  out, 
between  the  town  and  Cavo.  After  the  rough  climb 
up  the  mountain  and  a  long  look  at  the  violent,  pell- 
mell  race  of  these  peaks  and  slopes  toward  plain  and 
sea,  what  joy  to  come  upon  this  valley  curving  gently 
like  the  bottom  of  a  pond.  Its  seductive  charm  robs 
me  of  all  courage  to  scale  the  heights  of  Cavo.  What 
should  we  do  there,  anyway,  now  that  Jupiter  has 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  ENDYMION  349 

been  driven  out  by  the  seismographers?  If  only 
there  were  soothsayers  still!  I  console  myself  with 
the  reflection  that  I  should  have  little  satisfaction  in 
seeing  Rome  and  the  Tyrrhenian  Sea  at  the  end  of  a 
field-glass;  besides  it  would  also  give  too  grave 
offence  to  the  good  King  Latinus  to  bear  witness  to 
Jupiter's  bankruptcy.  Come,  let  us  thread  our  way 
back  through  the  street-drains  of  the  village  with  the 
clear  blue  and  white  enamel  signs  announcing  their 
ridiculous  names:  XX  di  Settembre,  Garibaldi,  sacred 
to  every  Italian,  but  too  flagrantly  modern  for  this 
lofty  place,  so  disdained  by  the  great  present  and  so 
full  yet  of  the  ancient  defiance  and  domination  that 
we  think  of  the  fabulous  Ascanius  whom  it  had  the 
glory  of  attracting  to  its  charms.  So,  let  us  risk  our 
lives  once  more  in  a  rush  through  the  ancient  alleys 
to  the  funicular  and  the  trolley,  which,  in  a  flash, 
carries  us  to  the  borders  of  Lake  Nemi. 

Marino,  Castel  Gandolfo,  Albano,  Ariccia  are 
crossed,  climbing  up  and  going  down.  The  route 
between  each  one  of  these  straggling  villages  is  like 
the  avenue  of  a  great  park  with  tall  and  pollarded 
trees.  They  run  along  the  mountains,  under  the 
foliage,  the  sharp  rock  on  the  left  rich  in  oaks,  on  the 
right  the  majestic  stretch  of  the  Mediterranean  plain. 
How  sweet  and  soft  and  fresh  these  mountainsides 
are,  inclining  toward  the  sea !  We  find  them  especially 
so  when,  after  crossing  Ariccia,  the  tramway  grips  the 
rock  overhanging  the  beautiful  Valle  Aricciana,  deep, 
tender,  shining  with  new  crops,  beyond  which  the 
blue  waves  sparkle  in  the  distance.  The  sun,  high 


350  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

now,  floods  the  luxuriant  valley  and  begins  to  shine 
upon  the  impenetrable  depths  where  Venus  was  born. 
The  trees,  which  were  dark  and  bare  but  yesterday, 
spread  themselves  today  and  prattle  of  their  joy  in 
returning  to  life.  The  road  we  follow  is  enveloped 
in  tender  shade,  kept  fresh  by  the  Alban  waters  oozing 
from  the  shelter  of  the  rocks.  What  a  fine  dignity  it 
maintains  while  amusing  itself  with  the  branches  that 
fan  it  with  delicious  breezes.  The  windings  reveal 
a  new  aspect  every  instant,  always  fresh  and  radiant. 
Sometimes  the  sea  is  mistress  of  the  landscape,  some- 
times the  mountains,  sometimes  the  forest  oaks,  some- 
times the  village.  It  seems  as  if  the  trolley  were 
carrying  us  in  and  out  over  this  little  world  to  show  us 
all  its  joyous  aspects.  But  why  am  I  not  the  prey  of 
any  memories?  If  ever  memorable  ground  could  excite 
the  historical  mania,  should  not  this?  The  first  in- 
dustrious men  who  planted  it  and  cultivated  it  were 
those  to  whom  we  owe  Rome,  where  we  are  so  happy. 
It  was  on  these  robust  mountainsides  that  the  wan- 
dering race  of  the  fugitive  ^Eneas  stopped,  enriching 
them  with  their  own  stock  as  it  has  never  been  given 
to  any  people,  even  to  the  sons  of  Cadmus,  to  perpe- 
tuate themselves.  The  lovers  of  pure  nature  may 
here  take  a  beautiful  revenge  upon  those  who  always 
ask  a  landscape  to  yield  up  its  human  shades.  Nature 
is  lovely  quite  by  herself ;  we  feel  here  that  she  needs 
to  give  us  nothing  else,  that  she  requires  no  support  to 
please  us,  that  she  is  sufficient  unto  herself  and  unto 
us  in  her  great  generosity  and  her  exuberance  of 
happiness. 


The  Castel  Gandolfo 


Anderson 


Rocca  dl  Papa 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  ENDYMION  351 

I  sit  apart  on  the  terraces  of  the  Villa  Sforza- 
Cesarini,  at  Genzano,  to  breathe  in  the  silence.  A 
most  gentle  peace  perfumes  the  still  air.  Poised  on  the 
bank  of  the  Nemi,  like  a  bird  on  the  edge  of  a  fountain, 
the  balcony,  wreathed  with  red  camellias,  seems  to  be 
looking  at  itself  like  Diana  who  never  was  coquettish 
except  beside  this  stream.  She  could  look  at  herself 
here  with  no  fear  of  the  wind  furrowing  her  youth  with 
a  passing  wrinkle.  At  the  bottom  of  the  perfect  circle, 
garnished  and  crowned  by  the  chestnut  trees,  the  lake 
is  like  glass.  Nothing  agitates  it ;  neither  a  shiver  nor  a 
caress  can  reach  it.  Like  Diana  it  is  inaccessible ;  more 
than  her  image,  it  reflects  her  heart.  I  can  never 
find  in  it  those  legends  of  horror  that  have  been  at- 
tached to  it,  of  which  Renan  has  left  us  the  definite 
testimony  in  his  Pretre  de  Nemi.  I  am  even  troubled 
that  Gabriele  d'Annunzio,  who  is  so  responsive  to  the 
emotions  of  this  Latin  land,  should  have  laid  here  a 
scene,  a  love  scene,  to  be  sure,  but  of  a  novel  which 
he  calls  the  Trionfo  delta  Morte.  So  far  as  I  know  but 
one  writer  has  felt  here  the  serenity  which  fills  my 
soul:  that  is  Lamartine,  and  not  so  much  by  his  im- 
mortal verse  as  by  the  association  inspired  in  him  by 
the  eyes  of  Graziella.  "The  beautiful  Lake  Nemi 
which  no  breeze  ever  wrinkles,"  I  can  never  see  it 
gloomy !  To  call  it  charming  would  be  to  underpraise 
it,  yet  that  would  be  less  unjust  than  to  call  it  sepul- 
chral. Nothing  moves,  not  even  the  trees  that  loved 
Diana  and  look  for  her  features  in  the  depths  of  the 
waters,  not  even  the  spasm  of  death  shakes  it.  No, 
surely,  it  is  not  death;  it  is  repose,  it  is  retreat,  it  is 


352  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

beatitude.  Is  life  only  to  be  in  movement?  Life 
is  also  in  calm,  in  the  pleasure  of  mere  breathing  and 
seeing;  it  is  also  in  the  reflection  that  things  leave  in 
us  and  draw  from  us  without  agitating  us.  That  life 
is  mirrored  by  the  Lago  di  Nemi  as  it  is  not  by  any 
other  thing  that  I  know.  Its  two  hundred  metres  of 
depth,  which  no  storm  ever  reaches,  to  which  even 
the  shadows  do  not  attain,  far  from  terrifying  me  and 
recalling  to  my  mind  the  murdered  priest  of  Diana, 
inspires  me  with  confident  love  and  speaks  to  me  of 
the  beauty  of  indifference.  Why  be  troubled,  why 
live  in  the  harsh  sense  of  the  word?  What  has  not 
this  ancient  lake  seen,  with  all  its  woods,  with  all  its 
waters,  its  rocks,  its  plants,  and  its  fishes  and  seen  all 
without  defiance?  It  lives  and  is  serene,  it  never 
cries,  nor  laughs,  either!  All  that  touches  it,  touches 
the  surface  only,  nothing  can  trouble  it,  and  it  offers 
the  same  mirror  to  all  faces.  In  the  depths  of  its  bowl, 
as  on  its  verdant  and  protecting  banks,  it  sees  the 
days  and  nights  pass  without  ever  being  touched  by 
them.  Men  may  question  it,  but  it  disdains  to 
answer  them.  They  may  furrow  its  surface,  or  sink 
to  its  depths,  it  does  not  even  feel  them.  They  may 
turn  away  some  of  its  supply,  it  seems  unaware  of 
the  wound  from  which  the  blood  flows;  it  has  more! 
What  a  beautiful  lesson  it  teaches  us!  It  receives 
everything,  gives  back  nothing  in  retaliation,  and 
takes  no  profit.  It  is  there,  the  only  thing  undisturbed 
in  this  agitated  world,  eternally  young,  like  its  cold 
Diana.  We  die  of  wanting  to  live.  Lake  Nemi  lies 
here  peacefully,  looking  placidly  at  life  as  at  death, 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  ENDYMION  353 

letting  destiny  take  its  course.  Let  us  rest  in  its 
beatitude,  let  us  enjoy  the  sun  and  the  modest  lilacs 
and  the  proud  camellias.  But  we  must  take  care  not 
to  enjoy  too  much  or  Nemi  will  reproach  us  for  going 
too  fast.  It  has  been  waiting  thousands  of  years  and 
is  not  yet  tired  of  stretching  out  its  length.  Let  us 
rest,  breathing  deep,  as  it  takes  its  waters,  and  if  we 
know  how  to  reflect  in  our  hearts,  as  does  this  smooth 
blue,  those  whom  we  look  upon  or  who  move  about 
us,  we  shall  be  as  happy  as  the  angels  in  heaven  of 
whom  the  terrible  gods  asked  nothing  more. 

Alas,  like  so  many  men  who  understand,  but  fail  to 
profit  by,  the  lessons  they  receive,  I  suddenly  take 
alarm  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour  and  hastily  leave 
Nemi  to  catch  the  trolley  which  carries  me  once  more 
into  the  agitation  and  dust  of  vanity.  I  leave  the 
tram  again  at  Ariccia,  however,  and  walking  through 
the  woods  and  along  the  Chigi  Park,  come  to  the  Lake 
of  Albano.  Under  the  elms  and  chestnuts  I  meet 
Diana  again,  but  a  Diana  who  has  escaped,  as  I  have, 
from  the  calm  lake,  the  Diana  who  visited  Endymion. 
The  good-looking  shepherd,  who  dared  to  cast  his 
eyes  upon  Juno,  slept  in  the  shade  of  these  elms  when 
Diana  saw  him,  and  his  charms  made  her  forget,  as  I 
am  forgetting,  the  lesson  of  her  mirror.  She  loved 
and  left  forever  the  unmoved  serenity  of  Nemi  for 
the  smiling  banks  of  Albano.  Let  us  not  be  prouder 
of  it  than  she  was,  since  we  must  all  live,  that  is  to  say, 
be  happy  and  suffer,  learn  and  forget,  feel  and  think, 
which  one  can  do  very  well  on  these  banks !  If  Nemi 
is  the  lake  of  Lucretius,  Albano  should  be  that  of 

•3 


354  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Horace.  One  might  pass  one's  life  here  thundering 
the  canticles  of  Actium  or  the  refrain  of  the  old  men 
of  Faust.  With  wider  banks  than  those  of  Nemi,  the 
Lake  of  Albano  lies  less  deep  and  more  agitated. 
Dominated  by  Rocca  di  Papa,  in  view  of  the  now  ster- 
ile fields  of  Alba  Longa,  it  is  contemplated  by  Castel 
Gandolfo  and  visited  by  the  smiling  Sunday  crowd 
which  finds  amusement  in  throwing  stones  into  it. 
Between  the  plain,  which  was  the  cradle  of  Rome,  and 
the  rock  where  the  castle  of  the  pope  is  perched,  it 
laughs  over  so  many  vanities,  which  in  the  end  are  all 
alike.  Nemi,  reflecting  this,  would  not  have  a  wrinkle 
trouble  his  heavy  face.  Albano,  in  high  spirits  over 
it,  turns  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  winks  an  eye,  and 
breaks  into  a  thousand  smiles.  This  was  not  the 
place  for  Juliette  Recamier  to  find  consolation  in  exile ; 
Nemi,  much  better  than  Albano,  would  have  taught 
her  the  virtue  of  patience.  At  the  moment  when 
she  was  trying  to  forget  Paris  in  Canova's  villa,  her 
persecutor  was  thrown  down.  The  Lake  of  Albano 
was  not  sufficiently  serene  to  keep  her.  When  she 
returned  to  Paris,  was  it  not  partly  to  have  some  part 
in  the  storms  that  she  tried  to  save  the  life  of  the  poor 
fisherman  whose  fidelity  to  the  pope  had  caused  his 
condemnation?  To  plunge  into  a  passionate  episode 
is  a  poor  way  to  seek  consolation.  Beautiful  as  Diana, 
Juliette  had  the  goddess's  weaknesses  also.  Albano  is 
a  lover's  lake,  and  there  are  no  sweeter  memories  in 
the  world  than  those  its  graceful  beauties  arouse  in  us. 
One  wishes  that  he  had  come  here  when  he  was 
twenty,  hand  in  hand  with  the  choice  of  his  heart, 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  ENDYMION  355 

that  it  had  been  on  these  shady  slopes  he  had  first 
known  the  intense  joy  of  feeling,  of  being  a  man, — 
especially  over  there  on  the  western  shore  where  there 
is  a  veritable  paradise.  Upon  Monte  Cucco — where 
Alba  had  its  necropolis — there  are  some  villas,  oh,  five 
or  six !  At  their  feet  are  terraces  of  oaks  and  the  frisky 
lake;  opposite  lies  a  girdle  of  chestnut  woods;  on  the 
left,  hiding  the  roughness  of  the  rock,  stretches  the 
dry  and  thrilling  line  of  Alba  Longa,  under  Rocca  di 
Papa  and  Cavo;  to  the  right  stands  Castel  Gandolfo 
and  its  pontifical  palace,  a  sort  of  burg  without  de- 
fences ;  and  behind  lie  Rome  and  the  sea.  The  waters 
and  the  woods,  dead  Alba,  the  dying  papal  stronghold, 
Rome  of  the  Renaissance,  and  the  eternity  of  the  waves ! 
To  live  here  in  possession  of  all  the  beauties  the  world 
has  made,  those  whose  mystery  we  shall  never  divine 
and  those  which  man  heaps  up  untiringly !  One  would 
go  to  Nemi  from  time  to  time  to  seek  counsel  of  tran- 
quillity, to  learn  a  little  absolute  epicurism,  and  would 
return  to  drink  Falerno  and  to  project  an  exalted 
Forum.  Since  we  have  been  thrown  into  this  feverish 
world,  let  us  abandon  ourselves  to  the  whirl.  It  has 
its  intoxications.  Diana  entered  it  and  was  carried 
under.  Albano,  which  might  despise  everything, 
having  seen  everything  from  Alba  to  Castel  Gandolfo, 
is  always  amused  and  takes  part  in  the  play  that 
enlivens  its  banks.  My  dream  to  come  here  with 
those  I  love,  and,  from  the  height  of  a  little  villa, 
to  pass  the  long  spring  days  before  this  complete 
spectacle  of  the  earth,  its  lakes,  its  woods,  its  men, 
and  its  waves,  what  is  it  but  my  homage  to  the 


356  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 


fecund  passions  of  this  world?  Nemi  is  the  ideal, 
for  which  Albano  consoles  us  in  our  infirmity,  giving 
us  the  exaltation  that  we  are  denied  by  our  poor, 
but  rich  life! 


<N7&3*""* 
JCfcf^ 


Twenty-seventH  Day 

RUSIUN'S  MISTAKE, 

Minerva,  Cosmedin 

HE  traveller,  like  the  ancient  Gaul, 
counts  his  days  by  nights.  The 
nights,  much  more  than  the  days, 
seem  to  warn  him  how  little  time  he 
has  left.  From  my  little  Roman 
bedroom  I  shall  hear  Monte  Citorio  strike  off  my 
wakeful  hours  of  only  three  more  nights.  I  must 
make  haste!  How  many  things  are  still  to  be  seen! 
I  shall  not  see  them  all,  but  the  essentials,  at  least, 
will  not  have  escaped  me,  and,  although  certain 
buildings  and  certain  works  of  art  are  not  inscribed 

357 


358  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

on  my  tablets,  there  are  few  that  I  have  not  visited. 
You  will  find  trace  of  them  in  reflections  that,  surely, 
I  could  not  have  made  if  I  had  not  seen  them.  Al- 
though disclaiming  all  pretensions  to  being  a  guide, 
I  must  lay  some  claim  to  seeing  whatever  should  be 
included  in  a  suggestive  impression  of  my  journey, 
everything  that  is  important  either  for  the  problems 
that  have  arisen  in  my  mind  or  for  the  emotions  that 
have  been  aroused  in  my  soul. 

Without  mentioning  it,  without  admitting  to  myself 
the  reason,  making  a  pretext  of  the  nearness  of  the 
tramways,  I  have  often  found  myself  wandering  about 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  Pantheon.  I  found  myself 
there  again  this  morning,  but  resolved  to  leave  it  at 
once.  Have  I  kept  my  readers  waiting  too  long  for 
the  celebrated  Minerva?  Oh,  but  you  know  one 
goes  to  see  that  also  repeatedly  from  the  first  day; 
it  is  natural  to  step  in  on  coming  out  of  the  Pantheon ! 
I  rather  fought  shy  of  it,  however,  in  the  beginning, 
for  fear  of  being  unjust,  but  I  have  gone  back  contin- 
ually, and  I  always  shall.  Not  straight  back,  however, 
but  by  the  way  of  the  Piazza,  Navona,  Santa  Agnese, 
San  Agostino,  San  Luigi — to  see  Domenichino  again 
and  to  say  good-bye  to  Mme.  de  Beaumont,  by  way  of 
the  Palazzo  Madama,  1'Anima,  and,  at  length,  Santa 
Maria  della  Pace  where  Raphael  alone  repays  many 
visits;  and  I  have  also  studied  its  octagonal  form,  its 
rounded  portico,  and  Bramante's  cloister!  This 
enchants  me  especially  for  its  mockery  of  the  learned 
scholars  and  the  contempt  in  which  it  holds  their  rules. 
Just  as  a  temple  is  forbidden  to  be  round  and  a  wall  to 


RUSKIWS  MISTAKE  359 

rest  on  columns,  so  is  it  against  the  rule  for  columns 
to  stand  upon  the  keystone  of  an  arch.  I  have  already 
seen  a  bold  analogy  at  Bologna  in  the  Loggi  dei 
Mercanti  where  the  middle  of  the  windows  is  above 
the  points  of  the  lower  ogees.  In  the  Pace  Bramante 
is  still  more  audacious.  He  has  made  the  columns 
of  the  first  storey  rest  exactly  over  the  centre  of  the 
arches  of  the  ground  floor.  Not  only  has  it  Bramante's 
signature,  but  it  is  extremely  pretty,  incomparably 
light  and  graceful.  The  adjoining  church,  classic  as 
it  is,  could  hardly  be  more  unexpected  with  its  eight 
panels,  its  dome,  and  its  nave-vestibule.  There  is  but 
little  church  to  it,  with  no  mystery  and  a  decidedly 
un-religious  aspect.  No  doubt  there  are  reminders 
of  a  baptistery  hovering  about  it,  but  corrected,  at- 
tenuated. Sixtus  IV.  was  the  builder  of  this  Pace,  in 
1484.  He  was  a  Rovere,  like  his  nephew  Julius  II.  who, 
in  1504,  sanctioned  Bramante's  building  of  the  im- 
pertinent cloister  for  Cardinal  Caraffa.  Ten  years 
later,  the  Chigi,  of  the  Farnesina,  called  Raphael  here 
to  decorate  a  chapel  and,  a  century  later,  a  Chigi, 
Pope  Alexander  VII.,  finished  the  decoration  of  the 
church.  Today  the  Pace,  as  a  whole,  offers  us  a  good 
enough  summing  up  of  all  it  should  stand  for.  The 
Renaissance  is  seen  to  the  full  in  its  inspiration;  it  is 
to  me  one  of  the  most  striking  witnesses  of  the  effect 
produced  by  the  ancient  buildings  upon  the  Roman 
architects.  The  octagonal  form  of  the  baptistery  of 
the  Lateran,  the  round  form  of  San  Stefano,  and  of 
the  Mausoleum  of  Constantia  had  seduced  them,  but 
they  refrained  from  copying ;  inspired  by  them,  min- 


360  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

gling  them  with  other  Italian  memories,  and  transform- 
ing them,  among  other  ways,  by  the  suppression  of 
the  columns,  they  came  at  length  to  believe  in  the 
tradition.  The  Baroque  decoration  strikes  us  the 
more  forcibly  as  eloquent  testimony  of  the  decadent 
march  of  ideas,  of  what  art  had  become  in  the  hands  of 
the  degenerate  pupils  of  Bramante,  Michelangelo,  and 
Raphael. 

Baldassare  Peruzzi's  frescoes  opposite  those  of 
Raphael  are  manifest  evidence  of  the  presence  of  the 
master,  watching  over  his  pupils.  Michelangelo  also 
observes  them,  at  a  distance.  Peruzzi  is  on  his  honour, 
to  such  a  point,  that,  with  all  general  reserves  made, 
he  shows  himself,  here,  at  least,  superior  to  Raphael. 
Raphael  can  bear  anything,  however,  and  certain  it  is 
that  Peruzzi's  frescoes  would  not  shine  with  the  lustre 
they  have  at  the  Pace  if  we  did  not  think  of  the  com- 
parison. We  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  face  about  to 
examine  the  two  works,  turning  to  one  with  eyes  full 
of  the  other,  and  the  fact  is  not  to  be  denied :  Peruzzi 
wins.  By  what?  Oh,  by  Michelangelo!  By  a  reflec- 
tion of  strength,  of  energy,  of  nobleness.  If  you  wish 
to  see  the  difference  between  the  two  great  masters, 
Michelangelo  and  Raphael,  or  at  least  to  see  it  in  the 
same  flash  of  the  eye  upon  them  both,  come  to  the 
Pace.  You  will  see  once  more  before  you  leave  Rome 
in  what  Raphael's  genius  consisted.  He  is  not 
troubled  by  his  fierce  rival.  He  goes  on  his  way,  which 
is  his  alone,  painting  these  sibyls  as  he  painted,  during 
the  same  year,  his  Galatea,  his  cherubs  like  his  cupids, 
his  angels  as  he  painted  his  nymphs.  Just  the  same, 


RUSKIWS  MISTAKE  361 

conquered  as  you  may  be  by  so  much  grace  and  per- 
fection in  itself,  you  cannot  but  think  of  the  sibyls  in 
the  Sistine,  you  cannot  refrain  from  saying  to  yourself 
that  the  first  requisite  of  painting  is  to  render  the 
figures  represented  according  to  their  conditions,  not  as 
the  type  the  painter  likes  best.  Pinturicchio  himself, 
Umbrian  as  he  was,  did  not  dare  to  go  as  far  as  did 
Raphael,  although  his  sibyls  have  nothing  strictly 
conforming  to  the  prophetesses  of  Christ. 

As  for  Santa  Maria  sopra  Minerva,  it  is  one  of  the 
richest  churches  of  Rome  in  works  of  art  of  all  epochs 
and  signed  by  some  of  the  greatest  names.  Michel- 
angelo figures  here,  if  not  with  sublimity,  at  least,  as 
always,  with  audacity;  his  nude  Christ  upsets  all  our 
preconceived  ideas  as  much  as  does  his  Christ  in  the 
Last  Judgment.  The  drapery  that  has  been  fixed  upon 
this  statue  disfigures  the  line,  but  the  work  cannot  be 
counted  among  the  best  although  the  torso  is  worthy 
of  the  highest  conceptions  of  the  author  of  the  Moses. 
In  this  church  there  are  tombs,  also,  among  others, 
those  of  Leon  X.  and  of  Clement  VII.,  that  of  Torna- 
buoni  by  Mino,  that  of  Tebaldi  by  Andrea  Bregno, 
and  still  others,  especially  interesting,  those  of  the 
gentle  Angelico  and  Cardinal  Pietro  Bembo,  author  of 
the  Sarca  which  we  saw  at  Mantua. x 

Paintings  abound  here,  the  largest  and  the  most 
celebrated  being  the  frescoes  of  Filippino  Lippi.  A 
sort  of  glory  has  been  created  for  that  young  master  in 
recent  times,  a  late  fame  altogether  merited  by  his 
works  in  the  Accademia  and  the  Uffizi  at  Florence. 

1  Little  Cities  of  Italy,  vol.  i.,  part  ii.,  chap.  vii. 


362  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Let  us,  however,  avoid  placing  the  son  in  the  same 
rank  as  the  father.  Charming,  voluptuous,  firm,  and 
full  of  grace  as  are  the  works  of  the  second  generation 
of  the  Quattrocento,  they  can  never  be  considered  as 
rivalling  the  first.  The  touchstone  of  great  art  was 
fresco  painting  of  which  Fra  Filippo  and  his  contem- 
poraries were  the  masters.  After  them  the  hand  was 
more  slack.  What,  was  not  that  the  time  of  the 
frescoes  of  the  Sistine?  One  might  say  at  the  outset 
that  those  are  rather  great  pictures  than  frescoes. 
The  impression  they  made  on  me,  if  you  remember  it, 
was,  in  the  end,  almost  a  cold  one.  Only  Cosimo 
Rosselli,  perhaps,  of  the  second  generation  of  the 
Quattrocentists  is  superior  to  it;  he  was  the  oldest 
of  them  and  kept  the  nearest  to  the  first  generation. 
Here,  in  the  Minerva,  Filippino  shows  strong  evidence 
of  the  decadence.  His  Assumption  of  the  Virgin, 
presented  by  Cardinal  Caraffa,  is  treated  as  an  altar 
piece  and  his  Thomas  Aquinas  among  the  Heretics 
strives  in  vain  to  remind  us  of  the  Spanish  Chapel  in 
Santa  Croce  at  Florence.  Think  of  that  and  you 
will  be  able  to  clearly  measure  the  distance  and  the 
fall.  Fresco  painting  demanded  conditions  that  were 
no  longer  existing,  especially  at  Rome.  There  was 
still  talent,  but  the  burning  flame  of  genius  was  not, 
and  only  such  exceptional  beings  as  Michelangelo  and 
Raphael  can  be  said  to  have  properly  succeeded  in  it. 
Filippino  wished  to  seize  his  father's  brush,  and  it  is 
not  an  altogether  useless  comparison  that  has  been 
made  between  his  work  here  in  the  Minerva  and  that 
of  Masaccio  in  the  Church  of  the  Carmelites  in 


The  Assumption,  by  Fra  Filippo  Lippi,  in  the  Temple  of  Minerva 


Sibyls,  in  the  St.  Maria  della  Pace,  by  Raphael 


Anderson 


RUSKIN'S  MISTAKE  363 

Florence,  in  which,  it  is  said,  Filippo  had  some  part. 
Recall  to  your  mind  Filippo's  frescoes  at  Prato,  even 
those  of  Spoleto,  and  you  will  understand  what  is  lack- 
ing, how  hesitating,  yes,  discordant  is  the  Roman 
work  of  Filippino.  * 

Although  I  see  all  these  decorations  and  appreciate 
the  merits  of  each,  it  is  not  for  them  that  I  come  so 
often  to  linger  under  these  vaultings.  The  quarrel 
that  I  should  like  to  settle  is  not  between  them  and 
me,  but  between  the  style  of  this  church  and  that  of 
the  others  in  Rome.  Until  now,  the  basilicas  have 
had  an  easy  triumph.  The  Baroque  is  certainly  the 
most  detestable  of  all  styles  ever  adapted  to  the  Divine 
dwelling.  Outside  of  that,  there  is  another  way  of 
conceiving  the  house  of  God,  that  which  we  in  the 
North  have  adopted,  if  not  invented.  I  mean  the 
Gothic.  The  Minerva  is  purely  Gothic.  Does  it 
carry  the  palm  not  only  from  the  Baroque,  but  from 
the  basilican  style?  These  thousand  stiff  arms  which 
are  clusters  of  columns,  these  sharply  pointed  arches, 
these  tall  windows  opening  to  the  light  of  highest 
heaven,  in  fact  the  Gothic  which  implanted  in  us  of  the 
North  our  first  notions  of  beauty  and  which  is  so 
intimately  associated  in  our  minds  with  the  idea  of  the 
Divine,  am  I  forced  at  last  to  maintain  them  in  the 
rank  where  they  had  always  stood  in  my  mind  until 
my  first  visit  to  Italy?  Am  1  brought  to  admit  the 
superiority  of  the  Gothic  over  all  other  forms  of 
architecture  even  in  Italy,  eating  my  harsh  words 
uttered  at  Verona?  Perhaps  I  should  not  have  so 

1  Little  Cities  of  Italy,  vol.  i.,  part  i.,  chap.  vii. 


364  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

utterly  condemned  the  Gothic  in  Italy,  if  I  had 
had  before  my  eyes  other  models  of  inferior  beauty. 
No;  the  basilica  only  accentuates  my  dissatisfaction 
with  the  Gothic  in  Italy.  Not,  however,  in  the  matter 
of  space.  Too  often  I  complain  of  the  architects  who 
were  indifferent  to  the  geographical  and  social  con- 
ditions under  which  they  worked.  Such  buildings 
as  our  Greek  Madeleine  in  Paris  are  not  ugly  in  them- 
selves ;  they  offend  only  in  their  inability  to  move  us 
in  our  foggy  atmosphere.  Of  all  the  arts,  architecture 
is  the  most  strictly  limited  by  climatic  conditions. 
This  is  shown  in  the  very  birth  of  the  arts  which 
differed  according  to  their  latitudes.  The  primitive 
artists  worked  instinctively  for  the  sunlight  or  for  the 
misty  skies.  I  see  it  again  in  Rome  as  I  saw  it  in 
Verona  and  in  other  little  cities  of  Italy:  the  Gothic 
art,  born  upon  the  sombre  lands  of  Northern  Europe, 
loses  all  significance  in  Italy,  the  gate  of  the  Orient. 
In  France  and  other  countries,  where  the  sun's  rays 
are  rare  and  scattered,  the  Gothic,  seeking  what  light 
it  can  find  in  high  air,  is  an  admirable  support  to  piety, 
rising  as  it  does  to  take  at  its  source  the  light  falling 
from  the  open  hands  of  the  Saviour.  But  in  this 
Italian  land,  no  such  sentiment  is  possible,  and  the 
Gothic  meets  no  climatic  or  aesthetic  necessity.  Here 
the  sunlight  falls  so  abundantly  everywhere  why  aspire 
to  meet  it?  We  are  so  used  to  the  sun  that  we  can- 
not understand  at  first  why  it  refuses  to  penetrate 
under  these  vaultings.  Because  it  is  impossible  to 
play  hide-and-seek  with  one  who  will  not  hide.  With 
us  the  light  hides,  steals  away,  we  have  to  be  ready  for 


RUSKIN'S  MISTAKE  365 

it  at  the  precise  point  where,  at  certain  hours,  it  makes 
its  appearance,  seize  it  in  carefully  managed  corners, 
sort  of  reflectors  that  hold  it  and  multiply  it  as  long  as 
it  can  be  made  to  last.  Here,  on  the  contrary,  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  year,  at  least,  it  inundates  the  land 
and  its  waves  break  upon  obstacles  made  to  distil, 
not  to  absorb  it.  The  more  dazzling  the  light  outside, 
the  less  it  penetrates,  or  seems  to  penetrate  under  the 
vaulting.  If  one  is  blinded  by  standing  close  to  the 
windows,  how  can  he  be  expected  to  see  clearly  upon 
turning  toward  the  deep  vaulting  of  an  aisle? 

"Thy  temples,  0,  inaccessible  King  of  the  Spirits, 
forbid  the  Sun.  .  .  .  And  yet  the  heavens  are 
resplendent.  .  .  ." 

How  suggestive  that  cry  of  the  Italian,  Carducci, 
on  going  out  of  a  Gothic  cathedral!  The  Gothic  in 
Italy  is  gloomy.  Entering  a  Gothic  church  from  a 
burning  street,  one  finds  himself  under  arches  where 
the  sun's  rays  never  linger.  No  traps  should  ever  be 
set  for  the  sunlight  in  this  country.  It  already  has 
too  many  of  them.  The  Gothic  architect  knew  that 
so  well  that  he  instinctively  lowered  his  arches  and 
walled  up  all  the  windows  he  could  spare — that  sub- 
terfuge, alas,  only  adding  to  the  incoherence.  We 
are  but  stabbed  with  double  sadness.  The  first  came, 
flagrant  and  direct,  from  the  invading  night  which  fell 
around  our  shoulders;  the  second,  hidden,  surrepti- 
tiously, from  the  contradiction  between  the  object  and 
the  atmosphere.  For  a  long  time  I  have  cherished 
a  lively  enough  aversion  for  that  dogmatic  talker, 
Ruskin.  Lover  of  Italy,  he  never  understood  her. 


366  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

All  the  pains  he  has  taken  in  his  innumerable  volumes 
to  explain  her  works  to  us  fetch  up  in  regret  that 
Italy  refused  to  adopt  the  style  of  the  cathedrals  of  the 
Anglo-Saxons.  Perhaps  it  is  because  we  Latins  under- 
stand her  better  that  we  find  nothing  to  forgive  in  her 
inability  to  plant  the  Germanic  art  in  the  land  to 
which  the  son  of  Anchises  brought  the  light  of  Simois 
and  Scamander. 

Where  better  could  I  finish  this  day  than  at  the 
ancient  Velabrum?  Crossing  it  twenty  times,  I  have 
never  taken  the  hour  requisite  to  see  it.  The  monu- 
ments, neither  numerous  nor  difficult  to  examine,  are: 
San  Giorgio,  a  small  basilica, — a  rarity  to  be  prized, — 
the  Arch  of  the  Money-Changers,  the  Arch  of  Janus 
Quadrifrons,  all  three  intermediate,  while  a  little  far- 
ther on  is  Santa  Maria  in  Cosmedin,  upon  La  Bocca 
della  Verita,  a  small  square  which  is  one  of  the  most 
charming  in  Rome.  Here  is  something  to  confound 
all  the  Gothicophobes  at  one  glance :  the  charm  of  this 
little  Cosmedin,  with  its  porch  and  its  portal  and  its 
tower.  A  basilica  with  a  belfry!  Is  not  that  ven- 
geance on  the  Gothic?  Italy  did  not  adopt  the  belfry 
until  after  a  long  resistance,  until,  in  fact,  bells  were 
imposed  by  the  Church,  in  the  eighth  century, 
even  then  reducing  it  to  the  minimum  in  a  mere 
campanile.  This  belfry  reminds  me  of  that  of  the 
old  Greek  Colony's  little  church — now  Saint  John's 
and  Saint  Paul's — over  the  memorable  house  on 
the  Caelius.  That  campanile,  however,  dates  but 
from  the  twelfth  century,  although  composed,  like 
this,  of  antique  fragments  in  repousse  brick  and 


RUSKIN'S  MISTAKE  367 

decorated  with  squares  of  marble.  Who  knows  if  it 
were  not  from  this  campanile  as  much  as  from  Monte 
Cassino  that  the  Cosmati  took  the  idea  of  their  varie- 
gated and  useful  art?  Anyway  Santa  Maria  in  Cos- 
medin  possesses  important  examples  of  Cosmato  work. 
If  you  have  not  time  to  follow  up  their  many  beau- 
tiful pieces  scattered  over  Rome,  you  can  form  a 
fair  idea  of  what  they  did  from  these  ambones,  this 
choir  enclosure,  candelabrum,  pavement,  throne,  and 
tabernacle. 

Those  who  deny  the  paternity  of  the  ancient  basilica 
in  their  zeal  to  attribute  the  Christian  architecture  to 
other  origin  have  not  given  sufficient  consideration  to 
this  church  which  was  not  inspired  by  any  model,  nor 
moulded  by  any  suggestion,  but  is  frankly  lodged 
within  the  pagan  walls.  Since  the  day  of  taking  pos- 
session, the  church  has  been  transformed,  enlarged 
especially,  but  the  original  structure  still  exists, 
principally  in  the  wall  of  the  entrance  and  more  than 
twelve  columns  have  never  been  touched.  Some 
learned  scholars  have  it  an  ancient  court-house,  others 
a  temple,  yet  others  a  market.  Why  not  a  basilica 
and  done  with  the  controversy,  that  is  to  say  a  public 
place  where  a  little  of  everything  took  place,  according 
to  the  hour  and  the  day?  What  have  we  here  but  the 
Christian  basilica  installed  in  the  apartments  of  Jupiter 
without  changing  anything  of  his  arrangements  or  of 
the  Christians'  either?  When,  in  the  course  of  the 
centuries,  the  Christians  had  occasion  to  enlarge  their 
quarters,  other  spoils  of  the  antique  were  added,  but 
to  me  nothing  equals  the  columns  of  Cosmedin;  they 


368  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

seem  to  me  the  most  beautiful  of  any  I  have  seen. 
It  is  because  nothing  swears  at  them  in  this  little 
church.  Should  we  be  able  to  see  her  original  stones 
spared  the  Baroque  rehandling  if  she  had  been  in  any 
other  than  one  of  the  poorest  quarters  of  Rome? 
Even  now,  so  little  work  would  give  it  back  its  purely 
pagan  aspect:  the  removal  of  certain  famous  confes- 
sionals would  almost  give  us  the  basilica ! 

If  one  takes  the  trouble  to  note  with  what  ease  the 
religious  requirements  were  accommodated  to  the 
ancient  Roman  buildings,  it  is  foolishness  to  look  else- 
where for  the  origin  of  the  Christian  basilica.  If  one 
notes  how  easily  the  basilica,  once  vacated  by  the  gods, 
was  adopted  to  the  new  religion,  by  its  possibilities 
of  grave  intimacy,  its  protective  development  and 
the  position  and  arrangement  of  its  apse  to  which 
all  eyes  naturally  turned,  he  will  find  that  it  is  the  part 
of  wisdom  to  prefer  it  to  all  other  forms  of  religious 
architecture  in  a  sunny  country.  Compared  with  the 
round  temple, — Mater  Matuta,  there  across  the  river, 
— with  what  precision  the  Cosmedin  shows  the  transi- 
tion from  the  pagan  to  the  Christian  art !  The  columns 
mark  the  stage.  In  respect  to  the  round  temple,  with 
its  broad-brimmed  hat,  the  Cosmedin  tells  us  that  it 
was  possible  to  the  Romans  to  observe  the  unchange- 
able laws  imposed  by  nature  on  the  architectural  art, 
even  in  becoming  Christians  in  this  land  where  the 
gods  of  Greece  took  refuge.  When  they  were  driven 
out,  did  they  avenge  themselves  by  carrying  beauty 
with  them? 


Twenty-eighth  Day 

CINDERELLA 
Porta  del  Popolo,  Villa  Madama 

jOWEVER  firmly  one  may  be  resolved 
not  to  bemoan  the  past  and  to  accept 
his  own  times  for  what  they  are,  he 
cannot  help  feeling  sorry  for  himself, 
if,  at  the  end  of  a  month  in  Rome, 
he  is  obliged  to  admit  that  he  has  not  yet  passed 
through    the    People's    Gate!      Remembered     later, 
in   cold  blood,  how  comic  such  a  desperate  regret 
24  369 


370  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

seems;  but  at  the  time  it  is  a  serious  matter.  To 
every  stranger,  especially  to  every  Frenchman,  the 
Flaminian  Way  should  be  an  object  of  pilgrimage. 
Do  you  recall,  in  Michelet's  description  of  Charles 
VIII. 's  entrance  into  Rome,  that  masterly  page  where- 
in are  noted  even  the  shadows  "picked  out  like  torches 
by  the  lances  on  the  walls"?  The  Porta  del  Popolo 
was  the  gate  that  opened  to  our  ancestors — who  came 
as  conquerors  and  went  away  brothers,  and  since  then 
all  Frenchmen  coming  to  Rome  have  entered  by  the 
same  way,  from  Rabelais  to  Stendhal.  The  Flaminian 
Way  was  the  great  route  from  the  North,  and  it  was 
here  that  Rome  gave  her  first  kiss  to  her  Northern 
lovers.  At  the  beginning  of  the  last  century,  Napoleon 
made  the  great  square  within  the  gate  still  more 
dear  to  us  by  creating  the  promenade  of  the  Pincio 
above  which  the  mighty  oaks  sway  their  branches. 
Since  the  building  of  the  railway,  we  no  longer  come 
into  Rome  by  the  Porta  del  Popolo,  and  strangers  know 
it  chiefly  because  it  is  near  the  Piazza  di  Spagna, 
their  particular  quarter.  Sometimes  still,  one  passes 
through  it  to  go  to  the  Villa  Borghese,  but  after 
that  property  was  joined  to  the  Pincio  most  of  the 
other  passages  to  it  were  shut.  Only  the  villa  of  Pope 
Julius  calls  us  to  go  out  of  Rome  through  the  gate  by 
which  we  formerly  used  to  enter  it.  Now  the  Gate  of 
the  People  is  a  victim  of  the  blackest  ingratitude. 
Not  a  traveller  of  the  old  days  failed  to  fall  into  ecstasy 
on  this  first  sight  of  the  Eternal  City,  just  as  we  do  in 
the  Piazza  delle  Terme  today.  Like  CoppeVs  heroine, 
Rome,  putting  out  her  lips  from  behind  her  veil,  makes 


CINDERELLA  371 

the  hot  blood  rush  through  her  lovers'  veins;  the  veil 
may  change,  the  same  lips  are  always  behind  it. 

As  if  that  could  excuse  our  ingratitude,  it  is  only 
since  the  seventeenth  century  that  the  Piazza  del 
Popolo  has  had  the  present  physiognomy,  and  that 
has  been  modified  by  the  walls  of  the  Pincio.  The  two 
churches  which  flank  the  Corso  date  from  the  Baroque. 
The  clearing  of  the  square  goes  back  only  to  Sixtus  V., 
the  Haussmann  of  his  time,  although  it  was  Pius  IV. 
Medici  who  in  1562  replaced  the  old  Roman  gate  by 
this  one  of  Vignola,  finished  by  Bernini.  Even  so, 
this  was  the  gate  and  the  square  seen  by  our  fathers, 
and  what  has  not  been  modified  is  Santa  Maria  del 
Popolo,  the  church  fastened  to  the  city  wall,  whose 
hospitable  steps  invited  the  traveller  to  thank  God 
for  the  privilege  of  visiting  Rome  the  very  moment 
he  was  within  the  walls.  You  may  remember  that 
we  have  been  in  this  church  to  see  Pinturicchio's 
frescoes.  On  entering  it  for  the  second  time,  I  note 
once  more  how  the  Italian  taste,  even  to  Michelangelo, 
takes  no  account  of  symmetry  and  space.  Although 
the  two  churches  across  the  square,  at  the  beginning 
of  the  Corso,  are  companion  pieces  to  and  look  towards 
Vignola's  gate,  Santa  Maria  del  Popolo  stands  side- 
wise  to  the  square.  You  must  go  back  obliquely 
toward  the  Tiber  to  see  it  in  the  face.  Two  hundred 
years  after  it  was  built,  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
buildings  were  arranged  somewhat  more  harmoniously. 
The  little,  catacornered  fagade  is  charming,  however; 
yet  its  Renaissance  seems  a  bit  perverted,  foreshadow- 
ing the  dawn  of  the  sixteenth  century.  In  the  interior, 


372  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

on  the  other  hand,  the  great  fifteenth  century  triumphs, 
without  restriction  in  Pinturicchio's  frescoes,  and  in  its 
tombs.  Of  the  frescoes,  I  should,  perhaps,  prefer  the 
lunettes  in  the  Rovere  Chapel — the  church  belonged 
to  the  Rovere  family — even  more  than  the  great  compo- 
sition of  the  choir.  Pinturicchio  here  shows  a  phase 
of  his  talent  that  we  see  nowhere  else.  I  mean  that 
sense  of  intimacy  expressed  by  fine  things  in  which  his 
feeling  for  minutiae  is  at  ease.  Among  his  works  this 
Rovere  Chapel  plays  some  such  part  as  the  frescoes 
of  Carpaccio  at  San  Giorgio  dei  Schiavoni  play  beside 
his  great  compositions  in  the  Accademia  at  Venice. 
Both  Pinturicchio  and  Carpaccio,  while  having  noth- 
ing comparable  in  their  methods,  possess  something  of 
an  infantine  charm  which  seems  more  at  ease  in  a 
touching  recital  than  in  an  allegory.  Besides,  both 
of  them  have  treated  this  same  subject  in  small  pic- 
tures: the  life  of  Saint  Jerome.  After  all,  it  may  be 
that  alone  which  brings  them  together  in  my  mind. 
Yet  I  believe  that  Carpaccio's  Saint  Ursula  cedes 
nothing  to  his  Saint  George  or  his  Saint  Jerome. 
Certainly  the  frescoes  in  the  cupola  of  the  Popolo 
makes  no  impression  beside  those  of  the  Rovere 
Chapel.  Here  we  are  still  in  the  epoch  when  the 
artist  was  contented  to  portray  what  he  saw.  The 
more  the  subject  permitted  him  to  draw  his  inspiration 
from  nature,  the  more  truly  was  the  painting  an 
expression  of  himself.  Before  the  coming  of  Raphael 
and  Correggio,  only  the  saintliness  of  an  Angelico 
could  attain  unto  celestial  sublimities.  The  Quattro- 
centist  circumvented  the  matter  by  bringing  the 


CINDERELLA  373 


divine  scenes  into  human  proportions,  but  it  was 
necessary  in  Pinturicchio's  time  to  have  the  subjects 
not  too  far  from  the  life  of  men.  Pinturicchio  could 
not  "feel"  the  coronation  of  the  Virgin,  although  he 
understood  the  life  of  Saint  Jerome.  The  Coronation 
in  the  choir,  therefore,  is  the  work  of  a  great  decorator, 
but  the  Jerome  in  the  Rovere  Chapel  is  the  expression 
of  a  great  painter. 

To  examine  the  tombs  of  this  church,  one  by  one, 
would  be  nothing  less  than  to  undertake  the  study  of 
the  monumental  sculpture  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
that  is  to  say,  in  its  greatest  epoch.  I  have  some 
hesitation  in  asking  my  travelling  companions  here  in 
Rome  to  give  themselves  the  trouble  to  look  at  my 
preceding  books,  yet  I  know  of  no  other  way  to  share 
with  them  the  memory  and  the  comparison  of  so 
many  sublime  examples  of  the  beauty  of  this  art  of  the 
tombs  in  Tuscany,  the  ^Emilia,  Venetia,  and  Umbria. 
Rome  has  but  little  of  this  art,  but  that  little  is  of  the 
best.  The  gentle  Mino  da  Fiesole,  aided  by  Bregno, 
has  left  at  the  Popolo  the  mausoleum  of  a  Rovere 
which  is  as  charming,  as  full  of  delightful  good  taste 
as  the  finest  of  his  Florentine  sepulchres.  Andrea 
Sansovino  succeeded,  by  his  noble  and  simple  figures, 
in  making  us  forget  the  somewhat  tormented  archi- 
tecture of  Bramante  in  the  choir,  but  his  pose  of 
Cardinal  Ascanio  Sforza  asleep  in  the  attitude  of  a 
gun-cock  is  ridiculous.  Was  it  the  architect,  stingy 
of  space,  who  imposed  this  attitude,  or  was  it  the 
sculptor  who,  in  folding  up  his  model,  compelled 
the  architect  to  place  his  pilasters  nearer  together? 


374  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

The  virtues  and  the  angels  on  this  tomb,  however, 
compel  forgiveness.  Beside  them,  the  works  of  the 
following  centuries  pale.  It  is  impossible  not  to  feel 
a  shock  of  displeasure  at  the  Baroque  monument  of 
the  Princess  Chigi,  worthy  of  the  cemetery  at  Genoa. 
The  Chigi  Chapel  itself,  in  spite  of  Raphael,  leaves  us 
cold.  One  of  the  great  benefits  of  Rome  is  the  famili- 
arity with  the  antique  that  furnishes  us  with  the  exact 
measure  of  things,  inspires  a  taste  for  general  harmony, 
gives  us  the  standard  of  comparison.  I  see  the  merits 
of  this  Chigi  Chapel:  its  colour,  its  proportions,  its 
statue  of  Jonas  whose  model  was  designed  by  Raphael. 
But  the  one  primordial  merit  it  has  not :  it  is  anything 
rather  than  a  tomb.  The  Chigi-Rovere,  at  the  time 
when  they  finished  the  chapel  begun  by  their  ancestor, 
were  of  that  century  when  Rome  saw  everything  from 
the  point  of  view  of  pomp, — of  beauty,  if  you  will,  but 
surely  not  of  suitability  to  anything  but  the  idea  of 
overawing  display.  Whoever  is  impatient  with  the 
Baroque  will  be  irritated  here.  This  chapel  of  the 
dead  Chigi  is  the  atrium  of  a  villa,  a  palatial  bath-room, 
anything  you  like,  pretty,  full  of  grace,  elegance,  and 
attractiveness,  but  it  is  not  a  sepulchre.  The  Chigi, 
even  when  they  employed  Raphael,  never  understood 
the  great  Roman  lesson  of  harmony.  As  for  the 
mosaics,  already  become  a  dangerous  branch  of  art,  al- 
though designed  by  the  painter  of  the  Farnesina,  they 
only  inspired  the  succeeding  century  with  the  idea  of 
using  them  to  increase  the  brilliancy  of  their  showy 
chapel. 

The  end  of  my  visit  is  near.     As  I  pass  through  the 


The  Piazza  del  Popolo 


Anderson 


Anderson 


St.  Maria  del  Popolo 


The  Tomb  of  Cardinal  Sforza,  St.  Maria  del  Popolo 


Anderson 


CINDERELLA  375 


Porta  del  Popolo,  I  feel  my  predecessors  and  masters 
close  about  me,  filled  with  melancholy  like  myself. 
They,  too,  are  leaving,  and  I  go  with  them  a  piece 
on  their  way.  We  all  sigh  together.  They  envy  me 
even  these  two  short  remaining  days  of  my  visit.  It 
is  all  well  enough  to  promise  to  meet  again  soon ;  it  is 
a  way  to  cover  regret,  like  talking  of  other  things. 
At  the  Ponte  Molle  we  must  separate.  While  they 
are  raising  the  dust  of  the  Flaminian  Way,  I  turn  off 
to  walk  along  the  Tiber  towards  Monte  Mario.  After 
taking  a  few  steps  I  hear  some  one  behind  me.  It  is 
Chateaubriand  kept  here  by  his  diplomatic  greatness 
as  well  as  by  his  desire  to  conclude  the  business  of 
renting  of  the  Caffarelli  in  order  to  finish  his  days  there. 
The  walk  that  I  have  just  started  to  take  is  one  that 
he  loved  above  all  others.  Starting  from  the  Ponte 
Molle  where,  in  the  trousers  of  the  emissaries  of  the 
Allobroges,  Cicero  came  upon  the  letters  which  proved 
the  villainy  of  Catiline,  passing  the  Villa  Madama  and 
ending  at  the  Angelica  Gate  of  the  Borgo,  are  these 
not  three  stages  of  a  promenade  in  which  Chateau- 
briand's literary  taste  must  have  delighted?  Ancient 
Rome,  Charles  V.,  the  Vatican!  All  Roman  history  is 
held  in  those  three  names!  I  invite  the  great  disil- 
lusioned Celt  to  bear  me- company  "under  the  light 
and  crumbling  portals  of  the  Villa  Madama,"  but 
he  is  afraid  that  "under  this  architecture  changed  into 
a  farm"  he  will  not  again  meet  the  shy  little  girl,  that 
fierce  young  savage  "climbing  like  a  goat,"  whom  he 
saw  here  in  his  youth.  With  a  kindly  and  majestic 
bow,  he  goes  on  rapidly  toward  the  Vatican  where,  as 


376  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

he  well  knows,  he  will  weary  the  Holy  See  with  his 
disdainful  remarks.  I  leave  him  to  his  contradictory 
thoughts  of  domination  and  repose,  those  thoughts 
which  made  his  life  so  magnificent  with  sadness,  and 
I  cross  the  fields  where  no  goat-girl  is  to  be  seen,  and 
climb  up  to  the  Villa  Madama.  Then  I  understand 
why  my  master  would  riot  come  with  me.  The  ruin 
is  lamentable,  more  desolate  than  it  was  eighty 
years  ago.  The  Neapolitan  royal  family  treats  its 
Roman  house  as  the  late  Austrian  Archduke  treated 
his  Tibertine  villa,  letting  the  beautiful  masterpiece 
built  by  Tuscan  taste  fall  into  ruin  bit  by  bit.  It 
was  Raphael  who  drew  the  plans,  but  it  was  a  Medici 
who  commanded  them,  and  the  beautiful  Florentine 
style  of  the  sixteenth  century  is  found  here  without  a 
blemish. 

The  villa  spreads  out  its  terraces  upon  the  side  of 
Monte  Mario  above  the  bend  in  the  Tiber,  the  hills  of 
the  Pincio  and  the  Sabine  Mountains  opposite.  Be- 
hind the  villa,  the  hill  rises  abruptly,  covered  with  oaks. 
I  steal  in  like  a  thief.  No  goat-girl  is  to  be  seen,  but 
the  farm  still  exists,  which,  for  the  sake  of  antithesis, 
the  noble  viscount  placed  within  the  walls  of  the  house. 
The  farm  includes  only  the  dependencies  of  the  villa, 
and  they  are  quite  enough.  The  farmer,  who  protests 
that  he  has  no  goat-girl,  showing  me  the  way,  I 
mount  a  stair,  lacking  half  of  its  steps,  which  is  cut 
in  the  supporting  wall,  and  so  reach  the  great  level 
of  the  garden  with  the  cascades  which  fill  it  with  the 
babbling  of  running  water.  It  tries  to  keep  me  out 
with  its  brambles,  its  puny  old  trees,  and  its  too  wild 


CINDERELLA  377 


rose  bushes.  At  the  end  of  the  garden  the  ruins  of  a 
summer-house  are  still  more  lamentable.  I  see  that 
one  of  the  last  stones  is  falling  into  the  rank  grass 
under  which  the  basin  has  disappeared.  Is  it  by  a 
miracle  that  the  balustrades  of  the  terrace  still  hold? 
Along  the  mountain  some  vague  remains  of  rock-work 
cling  to  the  soil,  the  one  helping  the  other  to  keep  from 
falling,  as  the  oak  and  chestnut  saplings  form  the  same 
brotherhood  of  mutual  aid  with  the  rocks  they  cleave. 
On  the  western  side,  there  where  the  entrance  used  to  be, 
not  a  trace  of  the  garden  remains.  The  court  only  is 
indicated,  thanks  to  the  semicircle  of  engaged  columns 
which  compose  the  fagade.  Stone  benches  flank  the 
door  and  some  wild-roses  hang  languishingly  about  it. 
I  have  to  push  aside  the  snowy  branches  to  make  a 
place  to  sit.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  mountain  has 
slipped  down  on  this  side  in  front  of  the  wall  and  just 
stops  upon  the  little  esplanade  where  the  eglantines 
find  excuse  for  their  innocence.  The  finished  grace  of 
the  villa  invites  me  in  vain  to  look  at  it.  I  know  its 
delicacy,  the  slightly  haughty  charm  of  inimitable 
Florence  which  Raphael,  capable  of  everything,  made 
his  own.  These  great,  brown  walls  seem  dry,  yet  a 
window,  a  bit  of  cornice,  any  single  detail  suffices  to 
enliven  them.  In  the  garden,  how  exquisite  was  the 
idea  of  that  semicircle,  which  balanced  the  loggia, 
now  walled  in !  The  almost  perfect  square  formed  by 
the  entire  edifice  would  have  been  cold,  but  the  loggia 
and  the  semicircle  first,  then,  on  the  southern  side, 
above  the  Tiber,  the  large,  open  balcony,  give  warmth 
to  it  all.  Why  do  not  the  poverty  and  ruin  that  pos- 


378  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

sess  it  prevent  it  from  still  breathing  an  air  of  happi- 
ness? There  is  too  much  affectation  in  this  neglect, 
and  it  makes  me  angry  when  I  think  of  the  slight 
effort  it  would  cost  to  maintain  the  dignity  of  so 
beautiful  a  place.  The  site,  on  the  flank  of  Mario,  is 
magnificent,  the  haughty  peak  which  dominated  the 
dome  of  Bramante  and  upon  which  there  is  now  talk 
of  placing  a  statue  of  Dante,  following  the  suggestion 
of  a  Frenchman,  M.  Jean  Carrere.  When  the  great 
Florentine  can  look  on  this  work  of  the  Medici,  I  am 
sure  he  will  forget  his  Ghibelline  wrath  and  calm  his 
spirit  with  indulgence  in  contemplating  so  beautiful 
a  souvenir  of  his  native  land.  Alas,  today  I  do  not 
dare  to  lift  my  eyes  to  those  heights  of  scattered  stones, 
covered  with  moss  and  lichens!  It  is  better  to  look 
at  the  little  roses  falling  on  my  knees.  The  sojourn 
of  the  Medici  in  Rome  left  three  buildings  which  are 
among  the  most  beautiful  we  can  see.  Their  villa 
on  the  Pincio,  now  French,  is  celebrated  throughout 
the  world  for  the  works  of  him  who  became  Leo  XI. 
The  Palazzo  Madama — which  the  Medici  bought 
about  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century — at  present 
occupied  by  the  Italian  Senate,  has  a  frieze  that  is 
a  wonder  of  sumptuous  delicacy.  France  and  Italy 
have  saved  their  Medicean  treasures,  whereas  the 
royal  family  of  Naples  has  abandoned  that  which 
chance  confided  to  their  hands.1  Madama  is  the 

'Charles  V.'s  daughter,  "Madama"  Margareta  of  Austria, 
was  the  widow  of  Alessandro  de'  Medici  when  she  became  the 
wife  of  Ottavio  Farnese,  Duke  of  Parma,  and  was  afterwards 
Regent  of  the  Netherlands.  The  Villa,  built  by  Cardinal  Giulio 


CINDERELLA  379 


Cinderella  of  the  Medicean  daughters.  Is  it  because 
of  the  injustice  which  has  pursued  her  that  she  touches 
us  more  deeply  than  the  others?  How  earnestly  we 
trust  that  some  king's  son  will  discover  her  charms 
through  the  fineness  of  her  bird-like  foot  which  rests 
upon  Monte  Mario  with  such  grace. 

I  have  strolled  into  the  loggia.  "Has  the  kings 
son  already  come?  Has  a  fairy  granted  my  wish  as 
soon  as  it  is  expressed? "  I  exclaim.  An  army  of  men 
with  colours  and  brushes  swarms  the  place,  climbing 
high  ladders,  hanging  upon  the  cornices,  clinging  to 
the  windows,  bending  with  twisted  necks,  even  sitting 
tailor-fashion  on  the  pavement,  sleeves  rolled  up  and 
blouses  open,  all  whistling  and  singing  at  their  work. 
Has  the  Count  Caserta,  and  the  Princess  Maria 
Theresa  of  Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen,  the  proprietors, 
given  heed  at  length  to  the  laments  of  the  visitors  and 
begun  to  save  the  advancing  ruin  of  the  beautiful 
villa?  Alas,  no!  These  are  not  workmen,  but  bright 
young  men  from  the  Villa  Medici,  the  French  Art 
School,  on  their  usual  Saturday  visit  here  to  copy  the 
work  of  Giovanni  da  Udine.  The  vaulting  of  the 
high,  broad,  luminous  loggia  is  covered  with  most 
delightful  decorations.  Arabesques  and  garlands 
everywhere  entwine  medallions  of  mythological  sub- 

de'  Medici,  afterwards  Clement  VII.,  and  the  Palazzo,  built  on  an 
old  fortress,  and  in  which  was  the  Medici  bank,  were  assigned 
to  Madama  Margareta  under  Paul  III.  Farnese.  It  was  also 
occupied  by  Catarina  de'  Medici.  Through  Margareta's  de- 
scendant Elizabetta  Farnese,  the  Villa  was  inherited  by  the 
royal  Bourbon  family  of  Naples. — H.  G. 


38o  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

jects  in  which  the  tenderest  and  most  delicately 
changing  shades  of  greens  and  pinks  mingle  with 
exquisite  nude  figures,  an  infinite  variety  over  which 
reigns  a  masterly  unity.  In  the  festoons  the  flowers, 
light  and  fine,  are  all  in  bloom,  none  fade  or  wither. 
White  and  milky  stuccoes  curve  over  the  ledges  in  the 
forms  of  nymphs  and  cupids. 

Three  vaultings  and  three  apses  thus  round  out 
under  all  the  tones  of  joy  and  tenderness.  Our 
young  Frenchmen  have  long  understood  the  charm  of 
these  loggias,  rich  in  instruction,  more  characteristic, 
perhaps,  than  the  loggias  of  the  Vatican  which  are 
narrow  compared  to  these,  although  more  numerous. 
Perhaps  the  imposing  pontifical  palace  constrained 
the  freedom  of  the  joyous  fancy  of  Raphael's  pupil, 
but  in  the  shelter  of  the  oaks  of  Monte  Mario,  in  the 
villa  where  even  the  Cardinal  hid  his  love  affairs, 
Giovanni  da  Udine  felt  no  other  fetter  than  his  own 
delicious  good  taste.  The  loggia  of  the  Villa  Madama 
is  a  model  of  decoration  upon  which  artists  may  draw 
forever  without  fear  of  exhausting  it.  The  moment 
that  it  marked  passed  rapidly.  Raphael  had  just  died 
and  his  posterity  soon  forgot  his  teaching.  But  this 
moment  was  before  his  influence  had  been  blotted  out. 
It  makes  us  feel  all  the  loss  inflicted  by  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  master  at  but  thirty-seven  years  of  age. 
If  he  had  been  able  to  prolong  his  lessons  for  another 
thirty  years,  two  or  three  generations,  at  least,  would 
have  felt  his  inspiration  and  no  doubt  the  Baroque 
would  have  been  avoided.  What  a  beautiful  dream! 
Let  us  try  to  console  ourselves  by  saying  that  if  we 


CINDERELLA  381 


were  to  come  upon  it  everywhere  this  loggia  would  seem 
less  beautiful,  less  brilliant  than  it  is  here,  animating 
these  crumbling  walls  with  the  freshness  of  life.  The 
whole  of  Monte  Mario  seems  to  rejoice  in  it,  and  I  was 
filled  with  gaiety  as  I  went  down  the  hill  toward  the 
Porta  Angelica,  thinking  of  all  those  young  French 
painters  turning  acrobats  to  plunder  Giovanni  da 
Udine's  charming  secrets. 


MARTYRDOM  OF  MAB-rYRnnM  or 

ci-r-o  A  c  AJi/f  mAnTYnUU/Vi    Ur 

STATUCOF       BYPOUSSIM  .'ST.  PfiOCESSE 

<r  aatjfijn*         **  *    rfju^^tFf  • 

sraauMo  ^     :  j  TOMBS  or  ^v~,     , 

TOMS  of  \".    iTATUf      :  GREGORY  XW-.  CSSCMATtLOA^     ,'         / 

c^M^'rx///..  \^r£%«  •  .'<«"<>«**">    <»«°«»rx'>  I  I     /     «,w^f*°/ 

*.    « »        \   _— ~L'    C/?toO«rA/i'       a  (         r  »       A        .I  ,| 


CHRISTINE 

OFtswfaen 
LEOXIt      f 


TOMB 

AI.CXAN 

G.RUVI'S 

•Rucir/xi 

ST.  PETER 

'  i  ' 

MARTYRDOM  OFf    RAPHAE L'S  ^'  TOMB  OF'' 

ST.  VALCftlE.          TRANSFIGURATION      PIUS  VII 


o   to 


Twenty-nintH  Day 

THE  THRONE  ROOM 

St.  Peter's 

T  is  the  day  before  the  last,  and  I  have 
passed  it  all  on  the  Vatican  Hill. 
Different  as  the  two  spectacles  are,  it 
has  not  been  time  wasted  to  look  at 
the  works  of  Michelangelo  and  Raphael 
with  eyes  full  of  Myron  and  Praxiteles  and  vice  versa. 
I  have  followed  the  influences  of  the  one  age  upon  the 
other,  testing  my  own  taste,  verifying  ideas  in  works. 

382 


THE  THRONE  ROOM  383 

And  why?  For  the  vast  benefit  of  the  pure  pleasure 
it  affords,  this  pastime  is  one  to  return  to  again  and 
again.  I  have  ordered  myself  to  go  elsewhere,  plunged 
into  other  pleasures,  hastened  to  form  deliciously 
unfair  judgments,  but  instinct  has  turned  me  back 
time  after  time;  and  now,  when  the  parting  hour  has 
struck,  how  quickly  I  run  to  the  spot  where  I  am  sure 
to  be  so  happy!  With  the  thought  of  last  time,  last 
time  like  an  accompaniment  to  all  my  observations, 
I  linger  over  the  loved  works,  telling  my  mind  to 
carry  away  only  the  highest  and  purest  impressions. 
I  have  passed  the  morning  with  Michelangelo  and 
Raphael,  the  afternoon  with  the  antiques,  and  a  rapid 
glance  between  at  the  Biblioteca  and  the  Borgia 
apartments.  Such  a  day  would  be  overwhelming  at 
the  beginning  of  the  visit,  but,  at  the  end,  it  is  no 
more  than  enough  to  put  one's  sensations  in  order  and 
settle  one's  judgments. 

This  last  proof  is  what  I  believe  everyone  should 
put  himself  to  with  sincerity.  I  find  no  essential 
impression  received  during  the  earlier  days  of  the  visit 
seems  changed,  except  that  I  have  acquired  a  deeper 
wrath  against  the  barbarous  restorers  of  the  marbles. 
When  one  has  been  day  after  day  in  the  company  of 
the  most  corroded  antiquities,  when  one  has  learned 
to  love  their  roughness,  has  been  touched  by  their 
ruin  and  their  scattered  fragments,  one  finds  himself 
unspeakably  irritated  by  these  prettily  done-up  statues, 
so  clean,  so  complete,  with  every  hole  filled  and  show- 
ing such  careful  orthopaedy.  I  want  to  pick  out  the 
restorations  and  try  to  imagine  the  statue  without 


384  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

them  and  to  study  and  compare  the  different  styles 
from  that  point  of  view.  With  such  eyes  I  saw  again 
the  galleries  of  Pius  VI.,  the  Belvedere,  the  Braccio 
Nuovo,  the  Galleria  dei  Candelabri.  It  is  rather  a 
mad  race,  but  for  the  fifth  time!  Alas,  this  is  the 
moment  when  we  all  feel  that  to  know  Rome  we  must 
not  visit  it  but  live  here!  Yet  one  more  gallery,  and 
with  a  feeling  deeper  than  regret,  with  remorse,  I 
leave  the  Corridor  Chiaramonti,  more  than  half  a  mile 
of  walls  covered  from  base  to  ceiling  with  fragments 
and  little  sculptures.  There  are  more  than  a  thousand 
of  them,  not  one  indifferent  and  many  sublime. 
When  you  enter  the  Chiaramonti  you  have  much  the 
same  sort  of  feeling  that  took  possession  of  you  the  first 
time  you  saw  the  gallery  on  the  water  side  of  the 
Louvre;  that  you  cannot  see  everything,  and,  if  you 
could,  you  could  not  remember  it  all.  Fortunately 
the  museums  are  shut  at  certain  hours.  How  many 
of  us  would  never  go  out  of  them,  if  they  were  not ! 
Rome  turns  you  out  of  hers  early.  At  three  o'clock 
I  was  obliged  to  leave  the  Vatican,  but  the  doors  shut 
upon  a  treasure  of  which  I  now  have  the  key.  I  go 
quietly  down  the  slope  under  Bramante's  wall,  round 
Saint  Peter's  and  there  I  finish  my  day. 

The  difficulty  is  not  to  say  what  one  thinks,  but  not 
to  say  it.  Like  everyone,  I  go  into  raptures  over  the 
Piazza,  the  fountains,  the  colonnade;  I  might  recall 
that  Napoleon  wanted  to  pull  down  the  houses  opposite 
the  church;  I  might  condemn  the  fagade  of  the  church, 
regret  that  the  drum  of  the  lantern  is  hidden  by  that 
pompous  front,  admire  the  peristyle,  distinguish  the 


THE  THRONE  ROOM  385 

work  of  Bramante  from  that  of  Michelangelo,  trace 
the  passage  of  the  architect  Raphael,  lament  the 
Baroque  ornamentation,  growl  over  what  Bernini  did, 
gape  at  the  cupola,  name  the  thirty  tombs  backed 
against  their  pillars,  remark  that  the  dome  from  the 
top  of  the  pillars  to  the  cross  surmounting  the  lantern 
is  higher  than  the  Pantheon,  that  an  entire  church 
might  stand  in  the  space  between  the  four  pillars  that 
support  the  cupola,  and  that  the  pontifical  altar  alone 
is  higher  than  the  pediment  of  the  Louvre.  I  might 
talk  of  the  invisible  crowd  and  of  the  wonderful  pro- 
portions of  a  temple  which  seems  extraordinary  in 
nothing  but  its  richness.  However  determined  I  may 
be  not  to  shirk  any  part  of  the  task  I  have  assumed, 
I  cannot  honestly  linger  over  details  to  be  found  in 
every  guide-book. 

In  the  first  place  Saint  Peter's  does  not  seem  to  me 
smaller,  I  should  say  less  large,  than  it  really  is. 
True,  the  eye  is  incapable  of  measuring  distance.  We 
are  taught  at  school  that  everything  appears  "in  a 
plan  tangent  to  the  eye."  Only  by  the  sense  of  touch 
can  we  learn  the  distance  separating  us  from  objects. 
No  doubt  education  supplements  this  infirmity  of  the 
visual  sense.  In  Saint  Peter's  education  comes  to  the 
rescue  efficaciously  when  we  place  ourselves  at  a  cer- 
tain point  at  the  end  of  the  transepts.  From  there  its 
proportions  of  Bramante's  work  are  apparent.  If  you 
do  not  find  them  so,  it  is  because  Saint  Peter's  adver- 
tisement of  its  extraordinary  size,  that  is  its  harmony, 
has  been  broken  by  the  three  trusses  added  by  the 
Baroque  art  in  making  a  longitudinal  church  out  of 
25 


386  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

an  equilateral  temple.  A  great  misdeed  is  there. 
Was  it  atoned  for?  Has  Saint  Peter's  gained  in  any 
way  to  compensate  for  the  impressiveness  lost  by 
this  modification?  Since  majesty  can  no  longer  be 
seen  with  these  balances,  the  loss  should  be  made  up 
at  least  by  richness.  Richness  in  great  quantity  cer- 
tainly has  been  added,  that,  too,  a  means  of  giving 
grandeur  to  the  edifice,  numbering  the  elements  which 
everywhere  else  would  blind  the  beholder,  but  here 
are  lost  in  immensity.  In  fact  none  of  these  surfaces 
but  are  carved,  painted,  covered  with  plaques,  or  do 
not  carry  some  sort  of  decoration.  Vaultings,  pillars, 
arches,  lunettes,  domes,  and  panels  are,  from  top  to 
bottom,  along  and  across,  covered  with  paintings, 
mosaics,  sculptures.  Outside  of  the  Corinthian  capi- 
tals, which  were  excavated  at  the  time  they  were 
placed  here,  and  some  columns,  engaged,  but  with 
fillets,  there  is  nothing  rough  or  natural.  Every- 
where are  heads  of  saints  and  of  popes,  coats  of  arms, 
angels,  birds,  flowers,  branches,  golds,  greens,  yellows, 
reds,  marbles,  porphyries,  coffer  designs,  reliefs,  and 
bronzes.  Decoration,  nothing  but  decoration!  Not 
a  pillar,  not  a  corner,  not  a  chapel  that  does  not  sup- 
port or  contain  some  monument,  even  many  monu- 
ments. They  are  to  suit  all  tastes,  including  bad 
tastes,  happily  unobtrusively  submerged  in  the  general 
effect.  Other  tombs  are  still  to  be  added.  You  will 
see  their  places  if  you  look;  although  care  has  been 
taken  not  to  leave  them  too  apparent  by  filling  them 
temporarily  with  pictures,  steles,  bas-reliefs,  and 
statues.  Obviously  the  plan  is  to  leave  nothing  bare 


THE  THRONE  ROOM  387 

on  which  the  eye  can  stare,  nothing  cold.  Saint 
Peter's  reminds  me  of  the  statue  of  a  miraculous  saint 
covered  with  jewels,  but  with  this  difference  that 
the  statue  is  so  great  and  the  jewels  cover  it  with 
such  a  knowledge  of  the  architectural  and  sumptu- 
ary necessities  that  it  is  only  dressed  and  not 
disfigured. 

So  much  for  the  ensemble,  an  effect  which  the 
details  only  accentuate.  For  instance,  Bernini's  bronze 
canopy  over  Maderno's  Confessio  in  front  of  the  high 
altar  is  enormous,  magnificent,  dazzling,  crushing. 
Behind  it  Bernini's  Gloria  splashes  its  radiance,  fright- 
ful in  its  massive  heaviness  and  useless  prodigality. 
The  doors  and  grilles  here  and  there  are  suitable  for 
citadels  and  public  gardens.  The  statues  are  cut  for 
pediments  a  hundred  feet  above  the  ground.  Where 
shall  I  find  something  simple,  normal,  something  that 
is  not  extravagant?  I  find  that,  too,  in  plenty  but  not 
in  the  form  I  should  like,  for,  suddenly  I  realize  that 
nowhere  have  I  found  God.  There  is  no  end  of 
altars.  But  not  one  have  I  seen  that  serves  purely 
for  the  purpose  to  which  it  was  dedicated;  always 
some  foreign  object  distracts  my  attention  from  the 
Divinity. 

When  the  table  of  the  Eucharist  does  not  disappear 
under  a  monument,  it  is  annihilated  by  some  famous 
picture.  It  never  stands  out;  I  must  remind  myself 
to  look  for  it.  Just  now  Bernini's  Gloria  made  me 
forget  Saint  Peter's  chair — which  it  includes.  The 
Confessio  is  surrounded  by  eighty-nine  burning  lamps 
— the  rule  calls  for  but  thirty-six.  Besides,  a  pope 


388  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

stands  at  the  entrance.  It  is  Pius  VI.  by  Canova,  of 
which  Stendhal  said  facetiously:  "The  head  is  treated 
with  a  softness  that  increases  the  resemblance."  Is 
there  not  a  corner  of  the  vast  church  where  one  can 
be  with  God?  Perhaps  in  those  two  great  chapels 
shut  in  by  iron  gates  fitted  with  glass  where  the  offices 
are  usually  celebrated?  Alas,  they  are  even  more 
overloaded  than  the  others.  The  first  contains, 
among  other  things,  Thorwaldsen's  excellent  statue 
of  Pius  VII.  The  other  shelters  one  of  the  marvels 
of  the  Renaissance,  Pollaiuolo's  tomb  of  Sixtus  IV. 
Who  but  an  ascetic  or  a  dunce  could  look  past 
these  bronzes  to  contemplate  the  Cross?  Could 
you  pray  before  the  tabernacle  behind  which  stood 
Michelangelo's  Pieta?  When  you  wish  to  look 
thoughtfully  at  the  ancient  wooden  episcopal  chair 
of  Saint  Peter,  as  if  Bernini's  bronze  fantasy  of 
the  Cathedra  Petri  were  not  distraction  enough, 
you  must  find  your  eyes  riveted  upon  his  tomb  of 
Urbain  VIII.  This  tomb  is  the  most  restrained  of 
Bernini's  works,  the  most  beautiful  thing  we  have 
from  that  artist  who  belittled  a  noble  genius.  The 
tomb,  in  bronze  and  marble,  is  so  superb  in  strength, 
the  figure  of  the  pope  seated  with  such  majesty, 
the  expression  is  so  true  that  it  might  have  been 
signed  by  Ghiberti.  Opposite,  the  Paul  III.  by  Gugli- 
elmo  della  Porta  is  still  more  superb.  Now  we  come 
to  Canova  who  impresses  me  here  as  he  did  in  the  Villa 
Borghese  and  at  the  Belvedere.  The  monuments  to 
Clement  XIII.  and  to  the  Stuarts  are  masterpieces 
whose  charm  of  sweetness  and  ease  of  line  can  never 


The  Tomb  of  Sixtus  IV 


Mil 

I    U.M.M.M. 


Anderson 


Anderson 


St.  Peter's 


•/& 


THE  THRONE  ROOM  389 

be  sufficiently  admired.  They  make  us  understand 
the  furore  created  by  their  appearance  in  the  world 
of  art.  Today,  however,  we  are  calmer,  better  able  to 
compare  Canova  with  those  with  whom  he  ranked  him- 
self, his  neighbours  of  the  Belvedere.  This  compari- 
son is  possible  only  to  Canova's  posterity  who  have 
taken  the  way  he  opened,  and  we  should  not  forget 
that.  We  find  Canova  a  little  too  soft,  too  fond  of 
roundnesses,  too  anxious  to  please,  but,  with  some 
reserves,  we  admire  his  effort,  his  rectitude,  and  his 
good  sense.  We  see  what  he  lacks,  but  let  us  not 
forget  that  he  has  given  back  to  us  the  spirit  of  the 
antique  which,  before  he  came,  seemed  lost  forever  in 
the  madness  of  the  Baroque.  We  must  not  place  him 
beside  Pollaiuolo,  but  by  his  immediate  successors, 
Bernini,  for  example,  and  then  we  shall  know  how 
to  appreciate  him.  Although  with  feeble  and  much 
too  languid  grasp,  Canova  took  up  the  ancient  Greek 
traditions  of  pure  and  sincere  expression  in  art,  yet 
not  even  he  can  give  to  me  the  impression  that  I  am 
in  the  world's  principal  house  of  God.  Saint  Peter's 
is  that  first  church,  and  wealth  and  pomp  are  vying 
with  each  other  to  give  it  the  supreme  expression  of 
power — whose  power?  I  cannot  believe  that  wealth 
and  pomp  express  the  supreme  power  of  God;  I  be- 
lieve that  God  is  a  higher  power;  but  nothing  here 
tells  me  that  those  who  built  and  decorated  this  pre- 
eminent house  of  God  were  filled  with  the  idea  of 
making  it  speak  only  of  the  All  Good,  the  Universal, 
the  Almighty  Father  of  Men.  If  it  had  been  their 
object  to  glorify  Him  they  would  have  shown,  not 


390  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

hidden  Him.  He  has  been  assigned  second  place. 
Everywhere  we  see  but  human  exaltation — with  rela- 
tion to  God,  we  may  be  told.  But  why  these  inter- 
mediaries, why  all  these  quasi-divine  pontiffs  between 
God  and  us?  It  is  a  dangerous  game,  so  dangerous 
that  I  have  lost  by  it.  The  old  basilica  would  have 
been  enough  to  move  me,  deeply,  to  great  tenderness. 
This  new  one  is  the  least  religious  of  all  the  basilicas 
one  may  see  in  this  religious  Rome  so  full  of  attractive 
church  drawing-rooms!  Saint  Peter's  was  rebuilt  at 
the  same  time  as  the  Vatican,  that  is  to  say  by  the 
popes  intoxicated  with  the  idea  of  temporal  power. 
That  tells  the  whole  story. 

Julius  II.,  who  is  called  the  great  founder  and  re- 
storer of  the  monarchical  papacy,  and  whom  I  once 
designated  as  the  destroyer  of  the  papacy,  was,  if  not 
the  initiator  of  the  present  church,  at  least  its  creator. 
The  same  mind  that  presided  over  the  Vatican  presided 
over  Saint  Peter's.  That  same  mind,  too,  called 
into  existence  the  Roman  palaces  we  have  seen  to 
which  the  Baroque  was  so  wonderfully  suitable,  the 
mind  of  which  that  art  was  the  monumental  and 
plastic  expression.  With  Julius  II.  the  papal  mon- 
archy was  installed,  the  next  necessity  was  to  develop 
it  monarchically,  that  is  to  say,  with  pomp  and  show, 
in  the  manner  of  the  times.  As  the  monarchy  grew, 
Saint  Peter's  was  enlarged,  modified,  embellished, 
parallel  in  taste  and  in  the  necessity  to  shine  with 
dazzling  brilliancy.  Saint  Peter's  has  been  but  an 
annex  to  the  Vatican,  the  throne  room  where  the 
monarch  presides  at  the  ceremonies  which  attest  his 


THE  THRONE  ROOM  391 

dignity.  It  was  built  to  show  the  pope  in  his  regal 
setting.  It  was  necessary  for  the  pontiff,  as  for  every 
sovereign  of  that  time,  to  appear  superhuman,  but 
more  necessary  for  him  than  for  any  other  sovereign 
since  he  was  the  emanation  of  God.  If  you  accept 
Montalembert's  expression,  "the  idol  of  the  Vatican," 
Saint  Peter's  is  the  altar  of  that  idol,  and  nothing  but 
that.  The  decorations,  the  tombs,  everything  in  it 
proclaim  the  grandeur,  the  formidable  majesty  of  the 
master  of  the  faithful.  Some  people  have  a  feeling 
of  respect  for  the  pope,  either  in  approaching  the  pon- 
tifical presence  or  in  merely  calling  up  his  image  from 
the  depths  of  their  hearts.  With  others  it  is  necessary 
to  make  an  emotional  appeal  to  the  senses.  Saint 
Peter's  is  for  the  latter  class,  for  the  hundreds  of 
thousands  who  feel  more  than  they  think.  Like  the 
Vatican,  like  the  Roman  palaces,  it  was  built  to  give 
to  the  people — for  whom  it  is  a  reception  room — the 
most  dazzling  idea  possible  of  the  sovereign,  to  inspire 
them  with  adoration  and  submission.  The  services, 
the  ceremonies,  processions  were  devised  to  captivate, 
even  to  overpower  the  imagination.  The  people 
crush  one  another  to  see  them  and  men  have  long  been 
accustomed  to  yelling  vivas  as  the  chief — the  humble 
Christ's  resplendent  representative — passes,  blesses 
the  innumerable  throngs,  and  disappears.  He  is 
terrible,  he  is  tutelary,  also,  watching  over  his  chil- 
dren, and,  even  as  they  do,  he  withdraws  to  a  little 
chapel  in  order  to  pray  to  God  for  them. 

Seen  in  this  light,  Saint  Peter's  is  perfect.     It  is 
flooded  with  harmonious  reason.     If  it  is  lacking  in 


392  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

warmth  to  us,  that  is  because  we  do  not  share  the 
delirium  of  the  faithful.     That  should  not  prevent  us 
from  understanding  it.     Saint  Peter's  is  a  wing  of  the 
Vatican.     We  must  accept  it  as  such,  not  as  a  church 
but  a  chapel  of  the  pontifical  palace.     The  palace 
being  the  proud  residence  of  the  king  of  God's  earthly 
realm,  the  chapel  should  be  an  imposing  one,  corre- 
sponding to  the  terrible  power  of  the  sovereign  and 
making  that  power  patent  to  all  beholders.     What 
will  be  the  ultimate  outcome  of  this  hypertrophy  of  the 
Vatican?     We  are  all  free  to  think  of  it.     I  spoke  my 
thoughts  on  it  at  the  time  of  my  visit  to  the  Lateran. 
Today  I  need  linger  only  over  the  work  itself,  indepen- 
dent of  its  destiny.     The  work  is  satisfying  because 
it  perfectly  expresses  the  sentiments  which  guided 
the  hands  of  its  architects.     In  the  gallery  of  the 
Vatican  Museum  I  was  overcome  with  admiration  for 
the  painstaking  popes  who  collected  and  arranged  so 
luxuriously    the    masterpieces    of    antiquity.     This 
pious  and  personal  feeling  of  the  popes  is  felt  by  the 
faithful  in  Saint  Peter's.     Under  a  religious  form  it  is 
the  same  gratitude,   the  same  reverence,  the  same 
deference  multiplied  and  magnified  a  hundredfold  by 
faith.     I  have  looked  with  compassion  at  the  windows 
of  the  palace  from  which  the  Medici,  Farnese,  Pam- 
fili,  Chiaramonti  watched  the  moving  of  the  treas- 
ures which  they  had  amassed  into  the  galleries  of 
the  Belvedere.     What  must  have  been  the  emotion 
of  the  faithful  who  saw  appear  in  this  magnificent 
room  which  is  Saint  Peter's  a  Gregory  VII.,  a  Sixtus 
V.,  a  Pius  VII.,  and  some  of  the  martyrs!    If  we 


THE  THRONE  ROOM  393 

see  Saint  Peter's  with  their  eyes,  perhaps  we  may 
still  be  indifferent  to  certain  portions  of  its  art, 
but,  at  least  we  will  hear  its  eloquence  because  we 
understand  it. 


THirtietH  Day 


IN  EXITU 


Forum 


HERE  shall  we  go  today?  What  shall 
we  see,  re-see?  I  feel  overcome  with 
weakness,  incapable  of  choosing,  I  am 
tempted  to  go  to  the  railway  station 
as  soon  as  I  am  up  and  sit  waiting 
on  the  platform,  like  an  emigrant,  until  the  train  is 
ready  to  take  me  away.  I  tell  myself  that  I  will  not 
say  good-bye,  but  will  go  away  brusquely,  as  when 

394 


IN  EXITU  395 

one  must  leave  the  person  one  loves.  Yet  I  am  afoot 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  profiting  by  some  early 
rising  priests  to  enter  a  few  churches.  As  soon  as  it 
is  open  I  go  into  the  museum  of  the  Thermae  and  my 
eyes  gaze  madly  about  trying  to  take  in  everything 
and  give  it  a  lasting  stamp  into  my  memory.  In 
eating  my  luncheon,  I  take  a  farewell  look  at  the  Corso, 
the  Piazza  di  Venezia,  at  the  city  whose  illuminated 
evenings  and  soft  nights  I  love.  Then,  after  a  long 
halt  at  the  Capitol  where  I  felt  the  old  anger  because 
I  could  not  fix  all  the  forms  I  saw  in  my  memory,  here 
I  am  for  the  last  hour,  seated  on  the  steps  of  the 
Basilica  Julia.  The  Forum  has  given  me  the  noblest 
emotion  of  my  life,  and  to  it  I  dedicate  my  last  look 
and  thought.  In  it  I  feel  the  culmination  of  all  my 
love  of  Rome,  much  more,  my  whole  self,  whatever 
I  may  have  of  culture — my  Latin  blood.  To  it  I  will 
confide  my  supreme  thought  and  my  sadness  at  leav- 
ing Rome.  To  it  I  will  tell  what  it  costs  me  to  fill  the 
last  page  of  my  note-book.  Oh,  I  am  not  proud  of 
these  pages!  Every  writer  in  putting  his  words  into 
final  order  finds  them  inferior,  taxes  his  nerves  in 
vain  for  expressions  more  apt  for  the  feelings  that 
move  him.  I  know  the  writing  malady!  And  if 
ever  I  have  tested  the  weakness  of  words  it  is  here 
where  I  seem  to  have  said  nothing  of  what  should 
be  said  and  that  what  I  have  said  is  not  as  it 
should  be,  insipid,  colourless,  not  to  the  point.  I 
have  felt  too  much  to  speak,  far  too  much  to  write! 
The  only  thought  with  which  I  can  console  myself 
is  that  I  have  been  sincere.  Is  that  enough?  Every 


396  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

author  has  need  of  indulgence,  but  he  who  dares  rush 
in  and  attack  Rome,  can  only  ask  his  fellows  to  deal 
as  kindly  as  they  can  with  his  peculiar  form  of  the 
human  weakness  from  which  not  one  of  us  is  exempt. 
I  hear  the  reproaches  that  will  be  raised  against 
me;  my  own  are  more  severe,  but  the  criticisms  that 
sting  me  the  deepest  of  all  are  from  Rome  herself. 
Why  did  I  not  speak  of  this  thing,  of  that,  why  not 
stop  here  and  there?    Ingrate,  who  has  said  almost 
nothing  of  the  Roman  fountains,  when  there  are  such 
gay  and  charming  ones  as  the  Tartaruga,  the  Trevi, 
the  Quattro  Fontane,  and  many  others!    Then  there 
are  the  Colonna  Gardens,  the  Trophies  of  Marius, 
Santa  Croce,  the  Hospital  of  the  Santo  Spirito,  Santi 
Apostoli,  San  Marco,  Capucini,  Santi  Quattro  Coro- 
nati,  Minerva  Medica,  the  Villa  of  Pope  Julius,  the 
Corsini  gallery  of  drawings,  the  San  Luca.     Oh  for 
another  thirty  days  in  Rome,  and  yet  other  thirties! 
I  have  seen  all  these  places,  however,  but  because  I 
have  not  seen  them  well,  I  have  said  nothing  about 
them.     I  wanted  to  make  this  book  light  enough  to 
carry  about ;  is  it  already  too  heavy?    I  excuse  myself 
as  did  Stendhal  at  the  close  of  two  volumes:  "I  beg 
pardon  for  speaking  briefly  and  in  a  way  trenchantly. 
Often  three  words  put  in  the  place  of  one  would  add 
grace  to  the  form,  but  they  would  carry  this  itinerary 
into  three  volumes."     I  have  but  one  at  my  disposal. 
Perhaps  my  enthusiasm  will  be  found  too  indulgent. 
Of  course  one  must  give  his  reasons  when  he  offers 
his  criticism,  and  I  believe  I  have  not  failed  to  furnish 
the  motives  of  my  admiration.     Is  it  my  fault  if 


IN  EXITU  397 

almost  all  that  I  have  seen  seemed  to  me  beautiful? 
But  if  that  reproach  is  laid  at  my  door,  it  will  be  but 
partly  true  since  it  be  clear  that  I  have  taken  pains 
to  judge  things  not  from  my  own  point  of  view,  by 
my  own  taste,  but  on  their  own  merits,  that  is  to  say, 
I  have  tried  to  understand  them.  It  has  always 
seemed  to  me  pretentious  to  say  that  a  thing  is 
beautiful  or  ugly,  good  or  bad.  When  the  object  has 
pleased  me,  rather  than  condemn  it,  I  have  looked  for 
the  reasons  behind  it,  why  it  was  made  as  it  was.  My 
indulgence  toward  the  Baroque  art  or  toward  Saint 
Peter's,  for  instance,  may  be  despised.  I  am  resigned 
even  to  that,  preferring  an  explanation  to  an  opinion. 
What  is  my  opinion  but  the  view  of  fallible  and  con- 
tradictory man?  That  which  is  much  more  import- 
ant and  that  which  all  the  world  is  not  expected  to 
know  is  the  moral  reasons  which  presided  over  the 
material  presentation  of  the  human  monument,  over 
the  plastic  expression  of  the  artistic  idea.  In  that 
a  little  book  like  this  may  be  useful;  it  may  help  to 
draw  in  the  claws  and  change  a  pout  into  a  reasonable 
reflection  and  the  simple  question  why.  What  an 
advance  in  the  study  of  art  and  man!  This  method 
has  its  dangers  which  I  certainly  have  not  avoided: 
that  of  making  us  too  indulgent  toward  what  merits 
nothing  but  severe  criticism.  Even  a  rascal,  when 
we  know  his  heart,  makes  us  find  excuses  for  him.  He 
loved  his  mother  so !  Things,  too,  have  their  mothers, 
who  work  upon  our  feelings  and  arouse  our  forgive- 
ness just  as  soon  as  we  begin  to  ask  them  about  their 
detestable,  and  almost  always  pitiable,  child. 


398  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

Perhaps  there  is  one  more  reproach  that  I  should 
raise  against  myself.  In  fearing  to  make  my  visions 
embrace  too  much,  have  I  not  made  them  include 
too  little?  Why  do  I  return  to  the  Forum  for  the 
last  hour  in  Rome  when  I  have  passed  so  many  here? 
Because  I  am  not  completely  satisfied  with  all  that 
I  have  seen  among  these  crumbling  ruins?  Rome, 
more  than  any  other  city  in  Italy  compels  us  to  be 
constantly  changing  our  ideas  of  things.  From  the 
first  day,  I  have  seen  it  as  a  living  museum.  Imagi- 
nation is  as  indispensable  to  the  traveller  as  acquaint- 
ances. Before  such  monuments  as  the  Palatine, 
the  Thermae  of  Caracalla,  the  Pantheon,  and  this 
Forum,  artistic  taste  and  goodwill  are  not  enough; 
one  must  be  capable  of  setting  up  again  for  himself 
the  ruins  scattered  on  the  ground  about  him.  He 
must  feel  himself  inspired  by  the  breath  of  en- 
thusiasm. The  beauty  of  Rome  resides  in  that 
which  no  longer  is  as  much  as  in  that  which  we 
can  see.  Have  I  sufficiently  expressed  this  profound 
feeling  of  perpetuity?  I  have  if  I  have  made  clear 
my  own  sentiment.  The  most  modest  of  men  has  an 
easy  task  when  he  is  called  upon  to  do  nothing  but 
feel.  No  one,  however  resolved  he  may  be  to  have 
no  emotions  without  tangible  reasons,  can  walk  about 
Rome  in  indifference  to  the  past.  In  fact  he  comes 
here  for  nothing  but  the  past,  and  at  the  end  of  two 
days  he  will  be  possessed  by  it  to  his  infinite  happiness, 
though  he  knows  that  he  can  never  bring  it  back.  At 
least  that  is  what  I  feel  here,  and  I  am  afraid  that  I 
have  never  made  strong  enough  this  perpetual  con- 


IN  EXITU  399 

trast  which  is  also  a  continuous  harmony  between 
the  dead  city  and  the  modern  city.  But  to  have 
done  so  would  have  made  an  enormous  as  well  as  a 
tiresome  book,  and  for  avoiding  the  making  of  that 
I  am  sure  of  forgiveness. 

In  these  last  minutes  in  the  Forum,  I  have  learned 
a  great  lesson  in  wisdom.  Not  only,  as  one  may 
think,  the  disdain  of  all  vanities — which  is  no  small 
thing — but  also  an  indifference  toward  everything 
that  does  not  contribute  to  my  happiness.  I  expect 
you  to  laugh.  I  shall  laugh  at  this  myself  tomorrow, 
but  I  still  contend  that  you  will  say  that  I  have  been 
a  happy  man.  Why?  Because  of  the  greatest  and 
most  beautiful  work  done  by  humanity.  Two  cities 
have  created  what  constitutes  the  life  of  the  Latin 
race:  Athens  gave  us  beauty,  Rome  gave  us  law  and 
afforded  asylum  and  pulpit  to  ethics  in  absorbing 
Greece  and  Christianity.  To  say  this  is  to  attest 
that  nothing  counts  in  Rome  but  the  antique.  I 
have  already  expressed  my  conviction  that  the  two 
phenomena  which  may  be  cited  in  opposition  to  this 
statement  we  owe  to  antiquity :  that  Michelangelo  and 
Raphael  would  never  have  been  what  they  were  if 
they  had  not  received  the  kiss  of  the  Belvedere. 
Undeniably,  the  antique  dominates  everything.  The 
Forum  has  become  such  a  powerful  influence  over  me 
for  no  other  reason  than  because  in  this  narrow  valley 
is  the  whole  of  the  ancient  philosophy.  A  visit  to 
Rome  can  only  be  a  hymn  to  antiquity.  That  alone 
soars  above  every  other  memory,  dominating,  lead- 
ing, commanding  all  our  thoughts.  The  thoughts 


400  A  MONTH  IN  ROME 

that  swept  me  at  the  Vatican  come  back.  Rome  is 
the  base  of  our  modern  life.  He  who  knows  her  at 
the  dawn  of  his  maturity  will  be  guided  inevitably 
all  his  life  by  the  sentiments  then  awakened  in  him. 
He  who  knows  her  only  at  middle  life  will  have  but 
one  desire:  to  begin  his  life  over  again  and  direct  it 
with  a  nobility  hitherto  wanting  in  his  character. 
Will  he  succeed?  That  is  another  matter.  The 
imperious  desire  to  be  worthy  of  what  he  has  seen  and 
understood,  even  the  unconscious  effort,  hidden  under 
the  small  matters  of  daily  life,  are  not  they  the  things 
we  most  admire,  what  we  find  pure  and  sublime  in  the 
past?  Men  are  mean  and  hypocritical,  passionate  and 
contradictory.  In  the  time  of  the  Gracchi  there  were 
plenty  of  villainies  lying  deep  in  human  hearts. 
Nevertheless  we  consider  the  Rome  of  the  Gracchi 
as  heroic.  It  was  surely.  So  are  we  in  spite  of  our 
pettinesses.  We  are  so  by  the  obscure  instinct  that 
leads  us  notwithstanding  the  selfish  profit  we  draw 
from  the  silliness  of  the  crowd  of  which  we  are  a  part. 
Always  something  of  our  aspirations  abides  with  us 
under  our  most  vulgar,  even  culpable  actions.  When 
a  chapter  in  history  is  summed  up  we  are  surprised 
at  the  balance  on  the  side  of  good.  No  city  can  show 
stronger  units  than  Rome  in  that  addition.  If,  with 
all  the  shortcomings  of  my  book,  it  may  inspire  in 
any  one  the  desire  to  know  his  Rome,  I  shall  not  have 
wasted  my  time  in  writing  it,  and,  as  the  human 
heart  so  often  makes  up  for  failure  in  what  it  has  set 
out  to  do,  so  I,  falling  short,  perhaps  as  traveller,  may 
succeed  as  man  and  citizen.  Without  too  great 


IN  EXITU  401 

shame  I  may  taste  the  ineffable  pain  of  the  memory  of 
my  effort  and  shed  tears  which,  like  those  of  Ovid, 
will  not  be  sterile: 

"  Cum  subit  illius  tristissima  noctis  imago 
Quas  mihi  supremum  tempus  in  Urbe  fuit, 
Cum  repeto  noctem,  quag  tot  mihi  cara  reliqui: 
Labitur  ex  oculis  nunc  quoque  gutta  meis." 

At  any  rate,  I  shall  have  won  the  privilege  of  being 
able  to  quote  from  the  Latin  without  making  myself 
ridiculous. 

26 


THE  END 


Ji:  Selection  from  the 
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Little  Cities  of  Italy 

By  Andre  Maurel 

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references.  In  brief,  it  is  an  excellent  book  of 
reference,  useful  alike  to  the  traveller  and  the 
student." — Boston  Eve.  Transcript. 

"The  information  is  compact,  concise;  the 
illustrations  are  frequent  and  beautifully  re- 
produced. It  can  be  especially  recommended 
to  those  who  intend  to  visit  European  art 
museums." — Review  of  Reviews* 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY ^AGILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

9—    .     —  .1-  =  -  __»_.!«(  *»,  tha  lihran/ 


SRUF 

^DEFINITE 
MM 

Date:     Fri,  19  Apr  91  15:  14  PDT 

To:        ECL4BAT 

Subject:  SRLF  PAGING  REQUEST 

Deliver  to   :  UCSD  CENTRAL 
Shelving  #   :  A   000  752  031  5 

Item  Information 

Maurel,  Andre*  1863- 
A  month  in  Rome/ 
Item      : 
ORION  #   :  0180523SR 

Requester  Information 

Unit  :  UCSD  CENTRAL 
Terminal  : UCSD  CENTRAL 

User  Information 


Name 

Lib  card 
Phone 


NUS 
UG 


A    000  752  031     5 


